


we've been here before

by hyruling



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Accidental Road Trip, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Sex, Everybody Lives, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, I Promise it Ends Happy, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, absolutely love that's becoming a tag, and i make up all kinds of lore to ensure that, and i mean everybody wink wink, the turtle CAN help us folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 12:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20753390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyruling/pseuds/hyruling
Summary: Richie starts seeing Eddie everywhere after Derry. He's obviously hallucinating, until he isn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> full disclosure i've only seen the movies once, so its very possible that i will misuse the lore to fix canon, but thats why you're here anyway eyyy [finger guns]

* * *

The first time Richie sees Eddie, he’s still in Derry. He’s in the townhouse, nine short hours after losing him, and wakes up in the middle of the night in the throes of a nightmare. When his vision clears of Pennywise and the taste of blood in his mouth fades, he blinks out at the inky black sky and freezes.

Eddie is on the balcony, back to the window, looking serenely at the sleeping town. 

“Eddie?” Richie gasps.

He’s half asleep, half out of his mind with grief, and throws the sheets off his body without hesitation. He scrambles out of bed, careful to avoid jostling Bev and Ben, who’d insisted on sleeping in his room and are peacefully entangled together next to him. He stumbles across the room and throws open the door, stepping out into the chilly night.

“Eds?” Richie asks softly. He shivers, goosebumps prickling his skin. Slowly Eddie turns around, and Richie is desperate to reach out to him. He doesn’t, he can’t, fear paralyzing him the way it did when Eddie’s chest was ripped open right in front of him. All he can do is stare, breathless and dumbstruck. He drinks in Eddie’s face, clean and familiar. All that remains of the wound on his cheek is a thin red line. Richie takes a deep breath and steps closer.

Eddie’s shirt is filthy, ripped apart like the gaping wound in his chest that shines with fresh blood in the moonlight. Richie inhales sharply, something guttural and agonizing tearing its way through his throat.

“Eddie, Eds, I’m sorry,” Richie chokes, voice thick. “I’m so sorry, I’m so—“  
  
“You killed It, Rich,” Eddie says, stopping him in his tracks. His voice sounds hollow and far away, no inflection or emotion to speak of. Richie shivers again, blinking back tears.

“_We_ did, Eddie. We got the fucker.”

Eddie doesn’t respond, doesn’t react. Richie steps closer, reaches a hand out. His fingers are just about to brush his cheek when the door opens behind him.

“Richie?” Bev asks softly. 

Richie shakes his head, refusing to look away from Eddie, who’s staring at Richie as if Bev doesn’t exist.

Beverly’s hand tugs on Richie’s shoulder, forcing him to pull away and turn around. 

“Rich, what’s going on?”

“Eddie, it’s— Eddie’s here, he’s— don’t you see?” Richie asks. He whirls around, and Eddie is gone. His hand reaches towards nothing, grasping cold empty night air.

“Richie, it was just a nightmare,” Bev says gently. Richie’s heart sinks; Bev reaches out and wipes a tear from his cheek.

“No, Bev, he was here, he _talked_ to me, he—” Richie argues. His throat closes up and Bev pulls him to her gently, wrapping him in a tight embrace.

“Come on,” she says quietly in his ear. “You need to get some sleep.”

He lets her pull him back to bed, settles in next to her and Ben, tears staining his pillow. He stares at the balcony for several hours before dropping into a fitful sleep, and dreams of Eddie calling to him from the ruins of the well house.

* * *

The funeral is on a Wednesday in New York City.

Eddie’s wife is there, as well as some distant relatives and a handful of coworkers that Richie’s never met, because of course he hasn’t. 

It’s a small affair. Closed casket, because he left Eddie’s body to rot in the sewers in Derry, because they have nothing left of him to bury. Richie’s fingers close around his cracked glasses in his pocket, the ones that still have traces of Eddie’s blood on them.

He stands in front of the empty coffin, surrounded by the rest of the Losers. They’re silent for a long time, save for the intermittent sniffling. Mike reaches out to touch the smooth wood, whispers something the rest of them can’t hear.

“He would’ve wanted to be cremated,” he mutters hollowly when Mike steps back into the fold. 

“What honey?” Bev whispers, holding his free hand tight in hers.

“He would’ve wanted to be cremated,” Richie repeats louder. Bill stiffens on his other side, and Richie feels his hand land on his shoulder. “He wouldn’t want to be buried in the fucking _dirt_.”

Bile rises in his throat, choking him. Bev rubs his arm with her other hand, whispering soothing assurances to him that he can’t hear over the ringing in his ears. It sounds exactly like Eddie’s voice calling to him in his nightmares. He wants to run, he wants to climb into the coffin himself and let them bury him instead, he wants to scream and break things and set the goddamn casket on fire because it’s what Eddie would have _wanted_.

They follow Mike’s lead and step forward individually to say a few parting words. Richie stares at the empty casket in silence, words he wants to say pooling like blood in his mouth, tasting iron when he bites his tongue to keep them tucked safely behind his teeth. He’s thought of all the ways he would tell him, if he were here. If he could have another minute, another _second_, he’d tell him everything. Three words too late, three words never spoken aloud, the only evidence a carving on a bridge three decades old. He should have carved them here, where they could live in eternity, where maybe Eddie could see them, could feel the weight of them even in death. His finger paints the smooth wood instead, tracing the pattern of the letters he’d carved, over and over like a benediction.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. 

He stands perfectly still, holding onto Beverly’s hand, closing his eyes tight when they lower the coffin into the ground. He leaves the moment it’s over, ignoring the calls from the other four. He changes his flight and is gone before the reception begins.

* * *

He goes home, and nothing’s changed, apart from the hollow feeling in his chest that accompanies him every waking moment.

He goes back to work. He writes his own material, his manager frowning and anxious when he tells her his ideas. He goes back to his house, which feels emptier somehow, feels too fucking big. He writes, he keeps himself alive on peanut butter sandwiches and not much else, and he drinks until he can finally pass out, settling in for the night with his recurring nightmare as his only company.  
  
He waits, but every morning, the memories are still there. They don’t wither away this time, even though a small part of him begs them to, like he could banish them with willpower alone. Even though he tries to erase them himself with a bottle of Jack every night.

Beverly calls once a week, and puts him on speaker phone so Ben can chime in. Bill invites him over for dinner, again and again, and eventually shows up at his house when Richie declines for a third time.

“Damn, can’t take a hint, can you Denbrough?” Richie says good-naturedly, hugging Bill and slapping him on the back. 

“S-sorry,” Bill says into his collar. They pull apart and Richie leads him to the kitchen for drinks. “Bev insisted I m-make sure you’re eating.”

Richie laughs and gestures to himself dramatically. “Jesus Bev. Fit as a fucking fiddle, man. Want me to take my shirt off and prove it?”

“I believe you,” Bill laughs, taking the beer Richie offers. He doesn’t look convinced.

Bill stays for a few hours. They order Chinese and catch up on their lives since Derry. Bill tells him about his new book, asks for his input. Richie invites him to his comeback show, and asks after his wife, and the elephant in the room slowly inflates like a hot air balloon the entire night.

Bill leaves without asking about Eddie, doesn’t even mention his name. Richie can’t decide if he’s relieved or insulted on his behalf.

He walks Bill to his car, hugs him again with promises to send him the info for his show. Bill drives away, and Richie takes a deep breath of warm California air. When he turns back to his house, Eddie is waiting on the porch. 

“Eds,” Richie breathes. For a moment he’s frozen, transfixed by the sight of him. His shirt is still dark with blood, but from this distance he can’t tell if it’s fresh.

It’s thirty steps to the porch. Richie counts them as he walks, slowly at first, amping up to a sprint. He stumbles on the steps, falls to his knees with a sharp swear, and when he looks up, Eddie is gone.

“Fuck! Jesus fucking— you can’t do this,” Richie cries. He pulls his knees up and rests his head on them, shoulders shaking with sobs. “You can’t do this to me, Eddie, fuck. _Fuck_.”

It’s several hours before he manages to pull himself together. He drags himself inside, doesn’t bother locking the door before he finds his way to his bed. He falls into it fully clothed, and sleeps for two days straight.

* * *

He starts getting daily glimpses out of the corner of his eye after that. Eddie sitting at an empty table while he’s at lunch with his publicist, disappearing when he does a double take. Eddie standing in the cereal aisle at Whole Foods, replaced with a nondescript stranger when Richie turns around for a closer look. Eddie on a bus stop bench, Eddie in line at Starbucks, Eddie leaning against the pool table at a bar.

Richie never makes it in time. He’s abandoned several confused friends and coworkers mid conversation to reach out to Eddie, only to find he’s gone before Richie can blink.

“You’re losing your fucking mind,” he chastises himself harshly after nearly being run down by a truck trying to get to Eddie on the other side of the crosswalk.

He makes an appointment with a therapist a week later.

* * *

“Sir! Sir wait, Dr. Thomas needs—“  
  
“Dr. Thomas can kiss my fucking ass,” Richie calls angrily over his shoulder. He barrels through the door, ignoring the stares and whispers of all the other patients in the waiting room.

He peels out of the parking lot without stopping to put on his seatbelt, breathing heavily through his mouth. How the fuck he ever thought therapy was a good idea he’ll never understand. How could he ever “describe his trauma”? How could he ever explain a fucking murderous, child-eating alien monster clown to a normal human being? How could he ever explain Eddie, how it felt to hold his lifeless body in his arms, knowing it was his fucking fault that he was dead? 

He swerves just in time to avoid driving right into a construction zone, cars honking and flipping him off as he pulls over. He breathes, tries to calm the storm raging in his mind, the ripping in his chest, Eddie’s endless stare imprinted behind his eyes permanently.

“Fuck. Fuck, Eddie, I’m sorry,” he chokes, not for the first time. He white knuckles the steering wheel, swallows the scream building in his throat.

When he looks up, Eddie is standing among the construction workers, motionless, eyes fixed on Richie through the windshield. Richie doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just meets his gaze until a man passes in front of Eddie, taking him away again.

Richie starts the car with numb fingers. He drives until he can’t anymore, until his eyes burn and the headlights all blur together and blind him. He pulls into the closest motel, but the idea of going inside feels impossible. He passes out in his car before he can bother with checking in. 

* * *

It’s three am the morning of his first show since Derry, and he’s wide fucking awake.

Eddie is in his kitchen. He’s sitting on a bar stool at the island, docile and silent. That’s how Richie knows he’s not real, that’s what keeps Richie from moving any closer than the stool across the island, just out of arms reach.

“I know you’re gone,” Richie tells him after ten minutes of silence. Eddie just blinks at him. His shirt is dark with old blood, and there’s flecks of it smudged on his chin.

“I know you’re fucking gone,” Richie continues, voice hoarse and shaky. “You’re not fucking real, man. You’re just here to torture me, to punish me for getting you killed, for leaving you there.”

Again, Eddie just watches him. He opens his mouth, as if to reply, and Richie panics and keeps talking.

“I tried to get you out, Eds,” Richie tells him. “I tried to bring you back, they wouldn’t let me— Ben and Mike, they pulled me away, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t… _fuck_.”

Richie’s head falls into his hands, pulling at his hair to remind himself that he’s not dreaming. When he looks up Eddie is still there.

“You should get some sleep,” Eddie says, and Richie nearly falls out of his chair. Eddie doesn’t say anything more, but there’s something in his expression, an emotion Richie can’t pinpoint, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not the dead eyed stare he’s been seeing for months, its new, and fucking terrifying.

“What?” he gasps. “Eddie, talk to me— come on. Please.”

“You have a show,” Eddie says quietly. It’s monotonous and soft, but it’s real, and Richie lets out a harsh breath.

“Yeah, yeah I— it’s my own stuff too, Eds. Like you told me.”

Eddie stares. It’s dark in the kitchen, but he swears he sees a flash of recognition in his dark eyes.

“I wish you could hear it,” Richie says quietly.

Without thinking, he reaches a hand towards Eddie’s. Eddie’s eyes flash down, tracking the movement across the granite. He sees fear, plain as day, cross his face the closer Richie gets.

“Eddie, it’s okay—“

The fire alarm blares out of nowhere, breaking the trance between them. Richie looks around wildly, and that’s all it takes. Eddie’s gone when he looks back.  
  
“Goddammit!”

He grabs the nearest object he can reach, a dirty dinner plate, and hurls it at the wall. It shatters, and the fire alarm stops just as suddenly as it started. Richie falls to his knees, exhausted and furious.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

* * *

“Jesus, you look like shit, Richie,” his manager Melissa tells him when he arrives on set. “Are you drunk?”  
  
“Not yet,” Richie answers dryly. “They here?”  
  
“Yeah, they’re in your dressing room— _Richie_!”  
  
But Richie is already ten feet away, barely aware of his steps, like some gravitational force is pulling him in the direction of his dressing room. The door slams open, and Bill jumps out of the way as Richie barrels into the room.

“Trashmouth!” Ben whoops. Richie is pulled into a four-way hug, and does his best not to shake apart in the midst of all the arms around him.

“Nice digs, man,” Mike says when they pull away. “Your couch is nicer than all the furniture in my house combined, Rich.”

“Yeah well, all your furniture is probably secondhand from fucking swamp people,” Richie retorts, earning an immediate laugh, and just like that he’s back in his element, he’s on solid ground for the first time in months. He sweeps the room several times as they catch up, and for once doesn’t find any ghosts lingering in the corner.

Bright lights and applause welcome him back twenty minutes later. He squints into the crowd and finds them in the front row, Bill catching his eye and shooting him an enthusiastic thumbs up. He takes a deep breath, smiling and waiting for the applause to die down. 

“Thank you, thanks for being here, everyone,” he greets the crowd, hoping the four he cares about most hear the sincerity in it. “This is, uh, a very special show tonight, because it’s the first time you’ll be hearing material that I actually wrote myself.” 

There’s nervous laughter, like the audience isn’t quite sure yet if he’s joking. He expected this and pushes forward.

“Yeah yeah, you can laugh, you heard right,” he continues, and the laughs are more genuine this time. “I uh, I actually do think there are funnier things than masturbation jokes, you know. Though, if we’re being honest, not much.”  
  
Laughter, applause. He sees the twinkle of Bev’s smile in the front row, sees Mike’s shoulders twitch with his laughter. Ben mutters something to Bill, who smiles wider and nods.

“Anyway, I recently visited my hometown again after, like, almost thirty years,” Richie says, heart in his throat. The four smiles in the front row dim ever so slightly, but Richie nods at them. “And it’s not like that _ever_ goes well for anyone, but this was… an absolute shit storm, let me tell you.”  
  
This earns another laugh, and Richie finally feels brave enough to tear his gaze from the front row. He scans the audience, a full house, and pulls the mic from its stand to wander the stage a bit.

“Yeah, and you know, you always think that the worst people you knew as a teenager will inevitably have incredible fucking lives, right?” Laughter, sounds of assent from the crowd. “Right, like, they’re the fucking luckiest bastards in the world usually, and you know they’re gonna go on to be like, super fucking rich, and never age, and just be the awful homophobic assholes that they were in high school forever, right?”

His palms sweat. It’s out there, as much as he’s willing to allow for now, enough to prick the ears of the internet, enough for the speculation to begin. He continues, doesn’t pause to assess the mood out there, looking anywhere but the front row at this point.

“Turns out, a lot of those fucking assholes are still there, in the piece of shit town where you had your first wank.” A pause while the crowd laughs. “Yeah, I didn’t say I was totally done with the masturbation jokes, come on.” 

More laughter, and he sucks in a shaky breath while it ebbs. He focuses on a section off to the right, and ice replaces the warm blood in his veins when he spots Eddie in the crowd. 

He freezes, and the spotlight is blinding now, highlighting the way he falls apart in front of hundreds of people. He can’t tear his eyes away, terrified of what will happen if he does, more so of what will happen if he doesn’t.

“You’re not here,” he mutters, forgetting about the mic. Distantly, he’s aware of the crowd shuffling and looking around, how things have gone awkward and hesitant around him, of Bev looking around to where he’s staring, muttering something to Ben and Bill. Eddie sits serenely about ten rows back, and Richie’s eyes squeeze shut, trying to remember his next bit. When he opens them again, Eddie is still there, but now he’s smiling like Richie’s just told another joke, and that’s fucking it.

“You’re not here,” he repeats louder as the rest of the world fades away. It’s just him and Eddie, alone in an auditorium echoing with Richie’s ragged breathing. “I know you’re not really fucking here, I know you’re not real.”

“Richie,” Melissa stage whispers from the wings. He ignores her, refusing to let Eddie out of his sight this time. He hears her heels click towards him on the stage, eyes locked with Eddie, still smiling at Richie, making him dizzy with it even from fifty feet away.

“Richie, come on,” Melissa says in his ear as she tries to tug him off stage. He pulls out of her grasp, stepping forward to get a better look, hopping off stage and darting around security to the aisle.

And then Bev is there, catching him before he can reach Eddie’s row, Ben at her side and Bill and Mike flanking him.

“Rich,” Bev says, just as gently as the first time. “Come on, we have to go.”

Her hands are on his face, pulling his gaze away, and he knows before he looks up again that Eddie will be gone. 

“Eds,” he mutters, and he feels sick. His stomach churns and Bev steers him down the aisle and into the lobby, never letting go of his hand.

He all but falls onto the edge of the fountain outside the venue once they’re outside, taking deep gulping breaths, willing himself not to vomit. He can feel the others behind him, silently judging and can’t bring himself to turn around.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he manages around the bile in his throat. “_Jesus Christ_, I’ve fucking lost it, I’ve lost my fucking mind, I should be fucking committed.”

“Richie, no one w-was thinking that,” Bill says, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Okay, well I am,” Richie argues. He turns and sits heavily, head falling into his hands again. “I see him everywhere. Christ, of fucking _course_ that little shit would come back to haunt me.”

“It’s fine, Richie,” Ben says. “Really. We all have our demons, you know, after everything we went through.”

“You don’t think—“ he hesitates, terrified to even voice it. “You don’t think it’s Pennywise, do you?”  
  
“No,” Mike says decisively. “No, It’s dead, It has to be. Our scars are gone, remember?”  
  
Richie unconsciously touches where it used to be, remembers the feeling of Eddie’s fingers in his, how Richie’s blood stained his cast for the rest of the summer, how Eddie’s permeated his glasses, made a home in the cracked lenses, kept safe and tucked away in his nightstand. He looks up to see Bev and Bill doing the same, thumbs running over unmarked skin.

“He talks to me,” Richie admits. This seems to, at last, give them pause. “Eddie, he— he talks to me, and it feels so fucking _real_.”

“That’s your mind playing tricks on you, Richie,” Bev says. She sits next to him and lays her head on his shoulder, and tears nearly well in his eyes when he remembers the last time she did this for him. “It’s normal, sweetie. You didn’t get closure.”

“N-none of us did,” Bill says quietly.

They’re quiet for a long time. Ben sits on Richie’s other side, arm going around his and Bev’s shoulders. Bill runs a hand through Richie’s hair, settles on his neck. He presses his lips to the top of Richie’s head. Mike is a stoic warm presence next to Bill, and reaches down to squeeze Richie’s bicep.

“Jesus,” Richie swears, blinking back tears. “Well, thanks for coming out to watch me ruin my career, hope you enjoyed yourselves.” 

They laugh, pressing tightly together before slowly disentangling. Richie wants to hold onto them, to twine together like a disgusting rat king, like errant vines that will never unravel. Part of him knows they already are, that they'll never leave. They're forever connected by invisible tethers that ache like a missing limb when they’re apart. He fights the hysterical urge to ask them to stay, to uproot everything they know and just stay here with him.

Ben suggests they go to a bar. They enthusiastically agree, eager to put the ghosts to bed for the evening. Richie climbs into an Uber, smushed between Ben and Mike, and turns his phone off after Melissa’s fifth ignored call.

He doesn’t see Eddie for a month after they leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 'you are a memory' by message to bears. 
> 
> thank you gene for the beautiful cover ily - please give them love on [tumblr](https://honeyreynolds.tumblr.com/post/190508014273/cover-for-weve-been-here-before-by-hyruling) !!! <3
> 
> sorry if this chapter seems super disjointed, i wanted to just get into richie's headspace after derry and have some time jumps to get where i needed to go, next few chapters should be a bit more normal pacing and way less depressing
> 
> im on [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/) if you wanna talk about reddie <3


	2. Chapter 2

His publicist Oliver helps him with fallout from his disastrous first set. He does several interviews, both in print and televised, explaining himself without going into detail, vaguely hinting that he’s been going through some unnamed shit, and promising everyone an interesting second comeback.

Somewhere around interview six, he's asked point blank about the homophobia comment in his set. He'd been expecting it, and preparing for it, but nothing can really every prepare a person for something like this. And with with shaky hands and a flushed face, he comes out, first to the intern interviewing him and then to the entire world. Just like that. He makes the cover, and wakes up three days later to his face plastered across Vanity Fair with the tagline “I’m gay” in bold letters.

Bev calls him right away, and tells him how proud she is of him, Ben echoing the sentiment. Mike calls to tell him more of the same, and by the time Bill meets him for drinks later that night, he’s stretched so thin he bursts into tears when Bill hugs him.

He tries therapy again. Bill gives him the information of the psychologist he sees, one who specializes in grief, and it’s fine. She doesn’t immediately commit him when he talks about seeing Eddie, anyway, which can only be a positive thing. She helps him start to envision a future again. She helps him begin the messy process of sorting through the mixed bag of emotions that come with coming out so publicly, and to find some peace with it. She lets him text when things get too out of control, and within a few weeks Dr. Andrea (Andie, as she insists he call her) Lewis joins the four other names listed under "Favorites" in his phone.

Slowly, the jagged edges start of his heart start to repair themselves. He still sees Eddie in his dreams, but more often now it’s Eddie from before. Eddie at fourteen, with his inhaler and his socked feet knocking into his face in a hammock. Eddie at forty, with his polo shirts and pocket Germ X and the ever present fucking inhalers. Eddie talking too fast, Eddie throwing rocks at Henry Bowers, Eddie laughing and arm wrestling with him. He still dreams of Eddie moments before his death, radiant with pride as he tells Richie he killed It. Eddie paralyzed with fear in the house on Neibolt, Eddie screaming at It and covered in grey water, Eddie calling out for him with his arm broken in three places, but at least now he also has the good ones to even it out.

After four weeks straight of interviews and therapy sessions and incessant rewrites, he’s stuck at some stupid Hollywood meet and greet his publicist insisted on. He’s on his third drink, just about to duck out when he’s introduced to some male model looking motherfucker named Ryan. He’s tall and lean and blonde, and laughs at absolutely everything Richie says, so unlike the short dark haired ghost that plagues his dreams. He agrees to dinner with him before fully understanding what’s happening, and drives home with shaking hands, Ryan's number burning a hole in his skin. He flexes his hand, and can’t help but compare the messy scrawl of it to Eddie’s perfect block handwriting. 

He meets Ryan on a Thursday after a few days of halfhearted flirting, every one of them spent feeling like he was going to hurl every time his phone lit up with a new text. They’re meeting at some uppity hipster restaurant downtown that he kind of already hates. He fixes his hair for the eighteenth time in the reflection of the window, hoping belatedly that Ryan isn’t sitting right on the other side of it. He isn’t, thank god, and stands and waves when he sees Richie from across the restaurant.

“Hey, good to see you,” Ryan greets him happily when he reaches him, leaning in and pressing his cheek against Richie’s in a weird semi-kiss. His face flames, feeling unusually self conscious as he takes his seat. Ryan looks like a fucking Greek god; Richie can literally see the outline of his chiseled pecs peeking through his tight shirt. Richie orders a double whiskey immediately.

They make small talk throughout appetizers. Ryan is in the business, not as an actor or model as Richie assumed, but as a manager. Richie smiles tightly and prays to anyone listening that he hasn’t come across Melissa, who essentially fired him as a client after his “incident”. If it hadn’t been for Oliver’s loyalty he doesn’t know where he’d be right now.

“So where are you from?” Ryan asks when their entrees arrive.

Richie is about to tell him he’s from here, L.A., can’t remember anything but palm trees and plastic surgery, and the words catch in his throat when the knee jerk catches up with him.

“I’m, uh.” He clears his throat, takes a sip of whiskey. “I’m from a small town in Maine, um. Derry.”

“Oh right, you mentioned it in your last show,” Ryan says. There’s no malice in his tone, but Richie tenses all the same. “You didn’t say Derry, I mean, but—“  
  
“I know what I said,” Richie interrupts. “I’m not _that_ fucking insane.”

Ryan holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “I know, I know, I wasn’t… I’m not saying you are.”

Richie sighs, throws back the rest of his drink. “Shit, I’m— I’m sorry. I’m just a little… sore, I guess. People online are assholes. More so since Vanity Fair.” 

“I hear you,” Ryan commiserates, grimacing and relaxing back into his seat. “I thought you were really brave, coming out after a… well, less than ideal comeback show,” he says delicately.  
  
“Yeah,” Richie says, huffing out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, that’s putting it mildly.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Ryan assures him. “I mean, you had a lot of support. For that, and for you know... what happened at your show. I mean, I’ve seen worse, believe me.”

Richie nods and stays quiet, taking another careful sip of his drink.

“You could tell me about it,” Ryan offers. He shrugs when Richie fixes him with a suspicious look. “I mean, really tell me. Not the story your publicist came up with. If you want, I mean.”

Richie picks at the potatoes on his plate. It hits him, then, that he could never be honest about past with virtually anyone else on earth. He could never have true intimacy with anyone, because who would ever believe him? _He_ wouldn’t believe him. There will always be a gap, a missing puzzle piece that any future significant other will never be able to parse. He’s never felt so lonely in his entire fucking life.

“Maybe someday,” he says vaguely. Ryan smiles, a contagious thing that spreads to Richie, and changes subjects smoothly. 

They finish dinner, steering the conversation far away from Richie’s career or childhood, and focus on Ryan’s.Richie is nearly finished with his second drink, listening to Ryan tell a story about a fishing trip with his brother, when he looks up and catches sight of Eddie tucked in the corner of the restaurant.

“Shit,” Richie swears, earning a puzzled look from Ryan.

“You okay?”  
  
Richie blinks at Ryan, finding Eddie again when he looks back.

“Yeah, I just uh— I need to uh, call my petsitter,” he lies, eyes barely leaving Eddie’s steady gaze. “My dog is sick and needs her— her uh, kidney medicine, gotta make sure she’s still, you know.”  
  
“Okay, yeah, no problem,” Ryan says easily. “Do what you gotta do.”  
  
He’s barely finished the sentence before Richie is out of his seat. He doesn’t even bother with pretending to pull his phone out. Eddie stands and makes his way to an alcove out of sight. When Richie finds him, Eddie is hovering between the two bathroom doors. Richie knows better than to try and touch him by now.

“About _time_ you got laid, Trashmouth,” Eddie says, smiling fondly at him. 

Now he knows he’s lost it, and he was doing so much better just yesterday, just _hours_ ago. He must have finally tipped over that precipice to be standing here at all, to be listening to Eddie talk and look like this, exactly how he remembers him. Eddie just smirks at him, infuriating and beautiful.

“What, no come back?” Eddie taunts.

Richie grins. If he’s lost his mind, he may as well enjoy himself. “Oh well, your mom had some on her b—“  
  
“_Jesus, _Rich. You’d think me being fucking dead would teach you a little respect, fuck.”

Richie laughs, feeling dangerously lightheaded, absolutely high from just this mild banter. “Aren’t you a boner killer.”

“Knew I gave you boners, you perv.”

Richie freezes, waiting for Eddie to change, for his features to blur and rearrange into one of Pennywise’s horrors. But nothing happens, apart from Eddie chuckling to himself.

“What are you doing here, Eds?” Richie asks. It’s not exactly the most pressing question he has for the corporeal form of his dead best friend that lives in his imagination, but it’s what comes out of his mouth all the same.

Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “I’m here to see you, dipshit. Obviously.”

“How?” Richie asks. His fingers itch to touch, to feel Eddie real and solid beneath him. He keeps them resolutely at his side, in no way prepared for how it would ruin him when they fell through nothing. “Are you fucking haunting me?” 

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. The teasing atmosphere evaporates, Eddie’s voice going deep and serious. “Rich it’s like— like I’m behind a curtain, or something, and usually it’s all black, but sometimes I can peek through and-- and I see you.”  
  
“You’re fucking with me,” Richie accuses immediately. “No, dude, you’re— you’re _dead_, Eddie, you’re just a figment of my fucking imagination. You’re a hallucination.”  
  
“Your imagination isn’t that good, Richie,” Eddie says with an eyeroll. “I’m telling you, I’m _really_—“  
  
“Richie?”

Richie turns to see Ryan looking at him expectantly. When he whips back around, predictably, Eddie is gone.

“_Fuck_!”

“Rich, are you—“  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Richie snaps. He shoulders Ryan out of the way and all but runs outside. It’s pouring; he’s completely drenched in seconds. He treks down the sidewalk anyway, looking for any sign of Eddie.  
  
“Eddie!” he calls over the downpour. “Eddie! Come on, where are you?”

Thunder rumbles in response, deep and menacing, vibrating through his skin. The rain has driven most people indoors, but he can still feel eyes on him from inside the shops.He staggers backwards under an overhang and falls against the brick, pulling off his glasses and wiping the water out of his eyes. His head falls back and he closes his eyes, sniffing as his heartbeat tries to normalize. He calms down for about ten seconds, then lets out an unbidden, frustrated yell. He’d been so fucking _close_.

“Come on asshole, _now_ you don’t wanna show?” he yells.

“Richie.”

Richie’s eyes snap open. He straightens slowly, and he’s there, right in front of him, just as soaked to the bone as Richie.

“Eddie…”

He steps forward, and the sleeves of Eddie’s shirt in his hands feel real, the wet cotton catches between his fingers, and he takes a ragged breath and focuses on Eddie’s face, not daring to touch his skin just yet.

“You can’t be here,” Richie says, and it sounds like a question.

Eddie smiles wryly. “Well I am, asshole. Get used to it.”  
  
Richie laughs, and it turns into a wet sob, hands gripping Eddie’s shirt sleeves as tight as he can. He notices for the first time his shirt is dark with old blood, the thin scar on his cheek has faded to a mere sliver of white. The gaping hole in his shirt reveals nearly healed skin, red and purpled around the edges but patched together nonetheless.

“Are you— Eddie, what the _fuck_?”

“I don’t know, Rich,” Eddie admits, face tense. “What I can remember... you wouldn’t even believe if I told you.”  
  
“Dude, you were there for Pennywise right? Like you remember the giant _spider clown_ that— “  
  
He hesitates. _That killed you,_ hangs in the humid air between them.

“Obviously, asshole,” Eddie snaps.

Eddie’s hands do something weird. He lifts them as if to touch Richie, then clenches them into fists in the space between their bodies, eyebrows pinched together.

“Can you get constipated in the afterlife?” Richie asks, immediately hating himself for it.

“Shut up, dumbass,” Eddie says sharply. “I’m trying something.”

He should probably let go, give Eddie space to do whatever it is he’s trying. He briefly considers how absurd that sounds as he thinks it, still not quite believing this is really happening, sure he’ll be chucked off to an insane asylum any moment.

There’s only the sound of the pouring rain, and Richie’s heart thudding in his ears, his harsh breathing. Slowly Eddie’s hands unclench, and he reaches for Richie. His heart skips a beat when Eddie’s fingers touch his neck. They’re solid, and cold, and before he can stop himself he’s pulling Eddie in all the way, arms wrapping around his familiar frame.

“Holy shit,” Eddie whispers into his neck. “Holy shit, what the _fuck_ Rich.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Richie answers. “Christ I don’t care how, fuck. _Eds_.”  
  
“Don’t call me that.”  
  
Richie laughs and hugs him tighter, hands running through his wet hair, over his shoulders, everywhere he can reach. Eddie’s are tight fists in his shirt, and he’s shaking against Richie. Richie’s hands tremble when he leans back and cups Eddie’s face between them, drinking him in.

Out of the corner of his eye he notices a woman approaching them with an umbrella, focused on the phone in her other hand. He lets one hand drop and gestures for her to come over, which she naturally ignores.

“Excuse me, ma’am?" She looks up cautiously, and raises her eyebrows questioningly.

"Quick question, can you see him?” Richie asks. Eddie rolls his eyes but doesn’t release his iron grip on Richie’s shirt. 

The woman looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Um… yes?”  
  
“Really? You can see him? Dark hair, adorable, aggressively short?”  
  
“Hey!” Eddie pinches his side, and he feels goddamn delirious about it.

“Yes, I can see him,” the woman tells him hesitantly. “Is everything… okay?”

“Fine, thank you, sorry for bothering you,” Eddie says in a rush. The woman scuttles away without a backward glance.

Richie’s hands come to rest on his shoulders, thumbs caressing his collarbones of his own accord. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. He sways closer, face a little paler than before.

“You okay?” Richie asks, trying to steady him. His energy seems to be flagging; his hands squeeze impossibly tighter in Richie’s shirt.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” Eddie breathes. Richie’s heart clenches. “Can we get out of the fucking rain now?” Eddie continues. “I can literally _feel_ my sinuses congesting.”

“Congesting? That’s not even a word.”

“Yes it is, fuckwad. Get me out of here.”  
  
“Are you— “ Richie pauses. “Are you gonna stay? Or are you gonna like, disappear back into the ether on me?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Eddie says again, his only explanation for any of this apparently. “This is the longest I’ve managed to stay.”  
  
“Okay, let’s get back to my place and— and I’ll call Mike. He’ll know something.”  
  
Eddie only nods. Before Richie can disentangle them to dig out his car keys, Eddie leans forward and rests his head against Richie’s chest. His hair tickles Richie’s chin. He swallows around the lump in his throat, and gently steers Eddie in the direction of his car.

* * *

Eddie’s still there when they pull into Richie’s driveway. He helps him into the house, ignoring how the rain has moistened the dried blood on his shirt, pretending it’s not sticking to his hands.

He sits Eddie down and dresses faster than he ever has in his life, terrified to leave him out of his sight. He grabs some dry clothes for Eddie and rushes back downstairs, entire body sagging with relief when he sees him still hunched in an armchair and dripping all over the carpet.

“Hey, put these on,” Richie says, tapping his cheek lightly to perk him up. “I’ll uh, make some coffee? Or— do ghosts get hungry, do you want some food?”  
  
“I’m not a fucking ghost,” Eddie says wearily, taking the sweats and t-shirt Richie offers. Richie smiles and heads into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, eyes flicking to the living room every few seconds.

Eddie starts unbuttoning his pants right in the middle of his goddamn living room. Richie finally looks away then and dials Mike with hands that won’t stop shaking. The ringing seems deafening in the silence of the kitchen.

Mike’s voicemail greeting plays in his ear just as he catches a glance of Eddie peeling off his ruined shirt. He can’t tear his eyes away from the bruised gash in his back, ugly and dark. Vaguely he’s aware that the greeting is over and he should be talking.

“Shit. Uh, Mike, call me when you get this. Like, right away, please. Need to talk to you really fucking urgently. This is Richie by the way.”

He hangs up. Eddie has collapsed onto his couch. He’s absolutely swimming in Richie’s clothes, looking small enough that Richie could almost swear he was thirteen again. 

He pours two cups of coffee and perches on the coffee table next to the couch. Eddie blearily opens his eyes when Richie says his name, waving away the mug he offers.

“Too tired,” Eddie mumbles, eyes slipping closed again. 

“How do I know you won’t disappear again when you fall asleep?” Richie asks, hating how small his voice sounds. 

“You don’t,” Eddie answers simply. “I don’t either. But I can’t— I’m so fucking tired, Rich.”  
  
“It’s okay, Eds,” Richie says. “Just— it’s fine.”  
  
Eddie reaches out, and Richie takes his hand without question, and within thirty seconds he’s out.

Richie reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch with his free hand and tucks it around him. Eddie doesn’t stir or budge whatsoever. Richie keeps his hand folded in his own, letting his thumb brush over his knuckles. Richie wants to curl up with him, similarly exhausted with the shock of the evening, but every time he thinks of taking his eyes off of him his stomach lurches and he can’t bring himself to let go. So he sips his coffee and stays put, watching Eddie’s chest rise and fall with his breathing, watches his eyelids flutter as he dreams. 

Twenty minutes pass before his phone vibrates. He yanks it out of his pocket awkwardly, refusing to let go of Eddie’s hand to make it easier on himself, and just barely answers in time. 

“Mike!” he whispers loudly.

“Richie? What’s wrong, you okay?” 

“I— “ 

He doesn’t really know how to answer. “I’m— okay, like, physically.”  
  
“‘Like physically’?” Mike repeats. “What does that mean? Your message scared the shit out of me, man.”

“I’m— fuck, Mike, okay. Okay.” There’s a beat, then Richie sighs. “Okay, remember how I told you guys that— that I was seeing Eddie?”  
  
“Yeah…” Mike drawls. Richie sighs again.

“Well, I saw him again tonight. But this time, he like, he _sounded_ like Eddie you know? When he talked to me. And then I followed him, and he’s fucking real, Mike, like I can touch him and— and his injuries are like, healing, and I know I sound fucking _insane_— “  
  
“I didn’t say that, Richie,” Mike says kindly.

“No, but I _know_ I do, because I thought I was. I mean, I probably— _definitely_ still fucking am, but I think… I think he’s the real thing, Mike.” 

There’s a long silence. Richie can picture the exact face Mike is probably making, patient and understanding and disbelieving all at once.

“Richie, did you ever— have you thought about talking to someone?” Mike asks gently.  
  
“Shit. Mike, look, I know how this sounds, okay?” Richie says. Eddie’s hand twitches in his. “I _know_. And I _have_ been seeing a shrink, by the way. This isn’t— this isn’t my mind playing tricks, or whatever, okay, look— I’ll show you.”  
  
“Rich—“  
  
He pulls the phone away from his ear and opens up his camera. He snaps a picture of Eddie and sends it to Mike.

“Check your texts,” Richie tells him.

Mike huffs out a breath but the shuffling on his ends tells him he’s listening. Richie counts seventy-eight seconds for Mike to come back on the line.

“Richie,” he says breathlessly. “Richie, you’re _sure_ that’s—“  
  
“I’m holding his fucking hand, Mike,” Richie snaps. “I’m _telling_ you—“  
  
“Hang on. I’m gonna FaceTime you.”  
  
Mike hangs up without waiting for a response. A minute later his screen lights up with a FaceTime call. He answers, and is met with Mike’s furrowed brows and awestruck face.

“Show me,” Mike says as soon as Richie’s camera clicks on.

“Alright, lower your voice though, he’s asleep.”

Richie taps to activate his front facing camera. He aims it at Eddie’s sleeping form, and Richie hears Mike gasp softly.

“Oh my god,” Mike breathes.

“I know, that’s what I’m _saying_,” Richie says. Mike slowly covers a hand over his mouth as he stares at Eddie. “So like, what the fuck is going on Mike?”  
  
Mike doesn’t answer. He pulls his hand away from his face, and Richie sees his thumb reach down to run over his palm. He knows what he’s going to say.

“Could it be—“  
  
“If it’s Pennywise, he’s running a _really_ long game,” Richie answers. “I already thought of that, but he never waited this long to torture me before. And some of the things he’s said… they’re not things Pennywise would know.”

“Like what? He knew a lot, Richie.”

“Like… like he told me not to call him Eds, and he called me Trashmouth.”  
  
“Richie…”  
  
“No okay I know, out loud that’s stupid, of course Pennywise would know that shit. Fuck. It just… he’s _Eddie_, Mike.”

There’s a tense pause. Mike’s mouth twists as he thinks it over.

“Show me the wounds,” Mike says eventually.

“Come on, man, that’s like… that’s weird, he’s asleep, I can’t just—“  
  
“Richie. Do it.”

Richie shakes his head, reluctantly letting go of Eddie’s hand and carefully laying it on the sofa. He puts the phone down and pulls the blanket down so he can tug Eddie’s shirt up. His stomach churns again when he sees the bruising, and he traces a finger over the skin without thinking.

“Rich?” Mike’s tinny voice sounds next to him.

He picks the phone up again and aims the camera at Eddie’s midriff. Mike inhales sharply when he sees it.

“And it’s— healing?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, man,” Richie answers. “Feels smooth and— and normal.”

“Jesus,” Mike swears.

Richie pulls Eddie’s shirt back down and tucks the blanket around him again. He switches the camera back around, and when he looks at his screen again, Mike has tears in his eyes.

“It’s really him?” Mike wonders softly.

“I think so,” Richie answers just as softly. “I really think so.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Richie laughs. “Yeah, I fucking know.”  
  
“Richie, I don’t know… I don’t know how this is possible,” Mike tells him. “I mean, It is gone, there aren’t any other… _entities_, for lack of a better word, that could do this. At least, as far as I know. Does he remember anything?”

“No. Or, well, he said I wouldn’t believe what he remembers. He said something once about a fucking curtain or something… like he was looking through it sometimes.” Richie drags a hand down his face, brutally exhausted. “He doesn’t seem to know how he’s here, or— or for how long.”

“Okay. Okay, listen, I’ll do some research, make a few calls,” Mike assures him. “In the meantime, his connection to you seems to be what’s tying him to our realm, so to speak.” Eddie snuffles in his sleep, and Richie sits back on the coffee table next to him. “Keep a close eye on him, maybe it’ll make it easier for him to stay until I can figure this out.”

“Thanks Mike,” Richie mutters. “I— thanks.”  
  
Mike smiles warmly at him. “You’re welcome. Tell him hi for me, alright?”

“Yeah, course.”  
  
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

There’s two beeps, and a then a dead screen. Richie stares down at it for a long time. He’s still scared to believe it, terrified of what will happen if this all ends up some sick nightmare. His brain feels like it’s been through a blender, and he doesn’t think his heart rate has seen less than 140 bpm since eight o’clock this evening.

“It’s fine, it’s fucking _fine_, you’re gonna be fine,” he mutters to himself. He takes his glasses off and leans forward, head in his hands, rocking back and forth. “It’s just Eddie, it’s just _Eddie_, you’ve been dreaming about the motherfucker for months, you can’t fucking freak out now that he’s actually here, you dumb fuck—“  
  
“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie mumbles.

Richie’s head snaps up. Eddie is smiling dopily, eyes still closed. He lifts his hand and beckons lazily. And like always, as if nothing at all has changed, like a moth to a flame, Richie is fucking helpless. He clambers forward and lays next to Eddie, body pressing against his on his narrow couch. Eddie shuffles to make room for him, and curls forward against Richie’s chest.

“Go to fucking sleep,” Eddie says against his shirt. Richie heaves out a heavy breath, letting his arm fall over Eddie’s side. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

He falls asleep with Eddie’s warm breath on his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/) <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i literally just updated last night but i have no self control. this one's a little shorter, it's basically a continuation of the last chapter. it just got too long so i split them. and yes i am still editing how many chapters there are gonna be with every update, don't worry about it

He wakes with Eddie’s arm around his shoulder, Richie’s head tucked into his neck.

The relief he feels is dizzying, and he can’t help the shaky sigh of it into Eddie’s skin. Eddie smells like he remembers, obscenely clean with a hint of aftershave. Any evidence of the horrors in the sewer have been thoroughly eradicated, save for the bruising on his chest.

He doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to disturb the moment, doesn’t want to upset the sleepy peace that envelops them, even though he has a crick in his neck and his arm is pins and needles.

His phone buzzes on the table. He tenses, but Eddie is still dead to the world and doesn’t stir. He chances it and extracts his arm to reach for the phone, and sees a text from Mike. It’s a single ‘_? '_

He unlocks his phone and types out a response one handed. ‘_Still here._’

‘_And the wound?_’

Richie peeks between them. Eddie’s shirt has ridden up in his sleep, and he can only make out a faint outline of bruising on his stomach. He swallows and types, ‘_mostly the same, will look closer when he wakes up_.’

Mike replies: ‘_Okay. Still researching, I'll keep you posted_.’  
  
He sends back a thumbs up emoji, and with a rush of affection realizes Mike probably stayed up all night doing research. He’s just about to put his phone away and catch another hour or two of sleep when it buzzes with another text.

_‘Have you told the others?’_

“Fuck,” Richie mutters to himself. He hadn’t even thought of that yet. A selfish part of him wants to keep this just for himself, to keep Eddie close and never share him with anyone ever again. The less exposure to the rest of the world, the safer he is.

He sounds just like Eddie’s fucking mother. Goddammit.

‘_I will today,_’ Richie promises Mike. He waits for a response but gets none, effectively ending the conversation.

He moves to put the phone back on the table, and it slips out of his fingers, clattering loudly to the floor. Eddie does stir then, eyelids fluttering as he comes back to life under Richie’s anxious stare. He groans, blinking at his arm wrapped around Richie’s middle. Richie holds his breath, but Eddie makes no move to remove it.

“Morning, sunshine,” Richie says.

“Mmm.” Eddie groans in reply, eyes falling shut again. “Your breath is gross.”

“Yours isn’t much better, princess,” Richie replies, lips curling up. Eddie still sounds like himself, and Richie is giddy with it. “I can probably find a spare toothbrush for you somewhere.”  
  
“Ugh. Only if it’s unopened.”  
  
“Jesus, alright your highness.” Eddie smiles, a tiny thing that Richie memorizes before it disappears. “How about coffee?”  
  
“Okay,” Eddie agrees. He still doesn’t open his eyes. Richie barely resists pressing a kiss to his forehead and untangles himself. He stares down at Eddie for a long moment before putting on his glasses and shuffling to the kitchen.

He dumps out the cold coffee from last night and starts a fresh pot, peeking in to check that Eddie’s prone form is still there. He’s rubbing his eyes and stretching, joints popping audibly.

He pulls out his cell while the coffee brews and Eddie stands to finish stretching. He opens the group text titled “Losers” and types a quick message asking if they’ll be available for a group FaceTime call in about an hour. Bill responds right away yes, as well as Mike. Eddie walks into the kitchen and hops onto a barstool.

“Not to like, put you out man, but I’m fucking starving too,” Eddie says groggily, still rubbing his eyes. Richie refuses to find it cute.

“Yeah, yeah I could whip up some uh. Toast, maybe or… cereal? Although, I don’t think I have any milk…”

Eddie stares blankly at him. “I’m guessing you don’t cook much.”  
  
“Not really,” Richie admits. “And I haven’t like, bothered with grocery shopping in awhile, since—“

He lets the rest of the explanation die in his throat. Eddie’s eyes widen, and Richie knows he gets it. Richie shakes his head, glasses sliding down his nose a bit. “Nah, forget it, I— it’s fine, sorry.”  
  
Eddie’s eyes flick down to his hands, anxiously kneading each other on the counter. Richie busies himself with pouring two mugs of coffee. He sets the cream and sugar on the counter, not sure how Eddie drinks it, and then digs in his barren pantry for a loaf of bread he’s sure is in here.

"Mike said he's gonna do some research," Richie calls over his shoulder as he searches. "He said he hasn't heard of anything that could bring you back, but he was gonna look into it. I think he worked all night, couldn't fucking believe you were here." 

Eddie doesn't respond. He finally finds the bread and digs some old butter out of the fridge. He’s just dropped a couple slices into the toaster when Eddie says softly, “Richie.”

Richie sighs, head dropping down for a second before he nuts up and faces Eddie. There are tears swimming in his eyes, and immediately Richie feels like the biggest asshole on the planet.

“Hey, no, Eds,” Richie says, rushing over to him. He reaches out hesitantly, waiting for Eddie to meet him halfway. Eddie presses his lips together, and then without a word he wraps his arms around Richie’s neck. Richie has to crouch a little to return the hug, but he doesn’t care. He hugs Eddie tight, feeling tears on his neck, utterly fucking helpless.

“It’s alright, it’s gonna be okay, Eddie,” Richie tells him in what he hopes is a soothing tone.

“How do you know?” Eddie asks, voice thick and wobbly. “It's like, any second that fucking darkness is gonna pull me back, and I'll just be _gone,_ I’ll never see you again.”

Richie’s heart does a weird flip flop, deliberating between touched and hopeful, and heartbroken and terrified. It fixes on unsettled, and he tightens his arms around Eddie.

“Hey, listen, I’m gonna be weird for just a second,” he says gently as he pulls away. “Lift your shirt, okay?”

“Ugh, fucking perv,” Eddie grumbles, but obliges. Richie reaches out and touches the edges of the healing skin, and he can tell its better. The purple has started to fade, parts of it a sickening green that he knows is a good sign. His thumb brushes over the center of the wound, a deep red that despite the color is completely healed over.

He presses gently, and Eddie gasps. “That hurt?”  
  
“It’s a little sore,” Eddie says.

“It looks better, Eddie. Really, it does. I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”  
  
Eddie looks doubtful but doesn’t argue. Richie reaches out and brushes the tears from his cheeks before he can stop himself, and there’s a moment where Eddie just stares at him with his hand on his face, the moment charged and intense. Then Eddie wrinkles his nose suddenly and frowns.

“Is something burning?”  
  
“Shit!” Richie exclaims. He pulls himself away and rushes over to the toaster, jamming the “cancel” button. Black charred toast pops out, and Richie swears as it burns his fingers.

Eddie laughs behind him, sniffling between peals of it, and before long Richie is laughing with him. It helps ease some of the tension in the room, even if only a little.

“Guess we’re going out for breakfast,” Eddie says when they’ve calmed down.

“Yeah, but uh, first we gotta do something.” Richie gestures to his phone on the counter. “I need to tell the rest of the gang that I’m not as batshit insane as they thought.”

“As they thought?”  
  
“Yeah, I kind of… told them I was seeing you everywhere. They thought I was hallucinating, I think.”  
  
“Oh,” Eddie says simply. He nods to himself and takes a sip of coffee.

“Is that… is that okay?” Richie asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just… it’s a lot, you know?”  
  
He doesn’t. He has no idea how it must feel to come back from the dead, to fight your way back time after time, all the while terrified of being pulled back. He has no idea how it feels to remember your death, to face everyone you knew before and have them think you’re a hallucination. He has no fucking clue, but he nods anyway, and picks up the phone to see Ben and Bev have also agreed to a call in thirty minutes.

“We’ve got some time,” Richie says, more gently than he’s ever been with anyone. “What would help?”

“I don’t know, Rich,” Eddie answers, staring hard into his mug. “Maybe just... sit here?”

So he does. They sit, mostly in silence, drinking coffee and waiting for the minutes to crawl by. He can’t remember a time they were this quiet with each other, now that he can remember how they used to be at all. With a sickening lurch he remembers Eddie’s funeral, and what he promised himself he’d do if he could steal more time, ‘_just another second’_, he’d told himself. His throat works hard around the words with each sip of coffee, threatening to spill with every passing minute, every second that he’s not sure how long he has him. He thought he’d take them to the grave before Eddie died, and now that he’s back, it looks like he still will. He thinks of Stan’s letter, and the curdling guilt in his stomach turns icy.

He doesn’t have long to perseverate on it. The phone rings a minute later, making him jump. Eddie stiffens next to him, looking scared shitless.

“I’ll talk first, okay?” Richie assures him. 

Eddie nods tightly. Richie squeezes his shoulder and then taps ‘Answer’.

He’s greeted with four grinning faces on three screens. Ben and Bev are cuddled together on their couch, Bill in his office, Mike likely in his study by the looks of all the books around.

“Trashmouth!” Bev greets happily. “How are you?”  
  
“I’m uh, I’m good, Bev,” Richie says, glancing over at Eddie rigid on the stool. “How is everyone doing?”  
  
There’s a chorus of “good”, “not bad”, “same old.” Mike stays quiet, watching his screen seriously. He nods at Richie when the greetings trail off.

“So uh. There’s a— a reason I wanted to do this call,” Richie starts.

“Y-you mean other than seeing our b-beautiful faces?” Bill teases.

“Yeah, you’re gorgeous, all of you,” Richie agrees, grinning despite himself. “No, seriously though um. You guys remember, at my show, I told you I was seeing— seeing Eddie everywhere?”

He sees Eddie close his eyes out of the corner of his eye, and exhale softly.

“We remember, Rich,” Ben says, kind as ever.

“Right, um. Well, last night, he kind of… crashed a date, and— “  
  
“A date?” Bev squeals. “Hang on, you never mentioned a date in the group chat!”  
  
Eddie shifts next to him. Richie glances over and sees him gripping his mug tight, staring hard at his white knuckles.

“Alright, not the fucking point, though,” Richie says quickly, trying to shut down this line of questioning before it’s too late. Bev looks on the verge of prying, so he barrels ahead.

“Look, the point is, I followed him outside because he— he sounded like Eddie, not like the dead-eyed zombie I was used to seeing.” Eddie swipes at his elbow. Richie ignores him. “And— I was able to touch him, this time.”  
  
“Richie,” Bill says softly, sympathetically.

“No, no, just keep— I’m trying to _tell_ you—“  
  
“Richie, this is how grief works, it’s okay,” Ben says patiently, and Richie groans.

“Let him talk,” Mike interrupts. He’s treated to three pairs of furrowed brows for it. 

“Mike? What’s going on?” Bev asks. 

“Okay, you know what?” Richie says. He looks over at Eddie questioningly. Eddie takes a deep breath and nods. “Just— look.”  
  
He switches to the front facing camera, aims at Eddie, and waits.

Bev lets out a choked off scream. Ben gasps Eddie’s name, and Bill is silent save for a sharp intake of breath. Meanwhile Eddie just stares at the phone, wry little smile on his face.

“Hey, guys,” Eddie says dryly, waving a little bashfully. Richie loves him so fucking much.

There’s a pause, and then everyone starts talking at once. Richie can’t make out any of it, and based on his face Eddie can’t either, and Richie just smiles, absurdly, deliriously happy considering the situation.

“Alright, alright, calm down everyone,” Mike’s voice says loudly.

“Richie, if this is some p-prank,” Bill says dangerously. Richie flips the camera back, and Ben and Bev make noises of protest. Richie hops off the stool and comes around behind Eddie so that they can both look at the camera.

“It’s not a prank, Jesus, how would I even— look, he’s a real boy!” Richie smushes Eddie’s cheek with one finger. Eddie slaps him away and glares, and when they look back everyone but Mike is wearing a matching awe-struck expression.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bev breathes. “Jesus— Ben, go get the laptop and look up flights.”  
  
Ben nods dazedly and steps out of frame for a minute. He returns a moment later, laptop in hand.

“H-how is this possible?” Bill says. “We s-saw you— It killed you, Eddie.”  
  
“Yeah, I remember that, funnily enough,” Eddie says. There’s no real animosity in it, only a self deprecating resignation.

“But _how_—“  
  
“That’s what I’ve been working on,” Mike interrupts. Ben looks up from the computer and the other two frown at their screens.

“Sorry, guys,” Richie says sheepishly. “I would’ve called everyone, but it was late, and I didn’t want to overwhelm Eddie.”  
  
“I’m right fucking here, Richie,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Yeah, that’s the whole fucking point of this, dumbass.” 

“Well stop talking about me like I’m not! Jesus, I’m not a fragile little bird.”  
  
“Could’ve fooled me, with your tiny ass legs.”  
  
“_Average_ legs— “  
  
“Boys!” Bev interrupts loudly. Richie and Eddie turn their attention back to the call. She rolls her eyes dramatically, but looks overwhelmingly fond. “Well, we definitely know that’s him.”

“There’s a flight in a few hours. I’m booking it,” Ben announces.

“I’ve got one too,” Mike tells them. “For tonight. I’m hoping I can follow up on a lead before I leave. I can fill you all in when I get there, I need to verify a few things first.”

“Shit, man, you can’t leave us hanging,” Richie says, hoping the desperation he feels isn’t so obvious. It must be, or Mike just must know him better than he thought, because he smiles gently.

“Look, based on what I’ve read, and the theory I have… I have no reason to think Eddie isn’t sticking around. For good.”  
  
Richie’s shoulders sag, and he can practically feel Eddie deflate next to him.

“Seriously?” Eddie asks, voice so small that Richie squeezes his bicep.

“Seriously,” Mike agrees. “I could be wrong, but I really don’t think I am. So, I’ll see you tonight, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Richie says. “Thanks Mike.”  
  
Mike smiles, and his screen goes black.  
  
“We’re going to pack, we need to leave in an hour,” Bev says. She smiles at Eddie, teary eyed. “We’ll be there soon.”  
  
“See you then,” Eddie replies. With a short wave she and Ben disappear.

“I’m coming over right f-fucking now,” Bill tells them. 

“Bring breakfast,” Eddie requests. “Trashmouth here has never used an oven in his life.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Richie snaps. Bill laughs.

“Okay, y-yeah, anything you want. Text me if you want something s-special.”

“See you in a bit,” Richie says. Bill nods and hangs up.

Eddie sighs hard when they’re alone again. He sounds about a thousand years old with just that one breath. Richie can relate.

“That actually wasn’t too bad,” Eddie says, smiling softly to himself. “Man, I missed you motherfuckers.”

“We missed you too,” Richie tells him. **_I _**_missed you. So fucking much_. “Now I can’t remember why, but…”  
  
“Shut up,” Eddie says, knocking his shoulder into Richie’s.It’s quiet then, the words building in his throat again, and he swallows around them. “You can um. If you want a shower, before Bill gets here, I can get you some clean clothes.” 

“‘Clean’ seems to be a relative term,” Eddie says, pulling at Richie’s worn tee and making a face.  
  
“Fine, fuckface, you can just keep wearing those, or put your rags back on—“  
  
“I didn’t say no, asshole, come on.”

“Jesus. Okay, follow me.”  
  
He leads Eddie to the spare bathroom, which he knows has a cleaner shower than his own, and then picks out another set of clothes for him. All his jeans would be too big, so he settles on sweats again, and another old band tee from high school that might actually be small enough to not swallow him. He finds an unopened toothbrush and toothpaste and leaves him to it, watching him for as long as he can before the door snaps shut.

He takes his own shower in the meantime, contemplating grief as the hot water beats at his back. Where the fuck is he supposed to go from here? How does he reconcile the parts of himself that died with Eddie, the parts that he’s spent months trying to repair, with Eddie alive and well, flesh and blood and warm in front of him? He's not sure they'll heal even with Eddie here, breathing and touchable, and definitely not until Richie knows if it's permanent. As incredible and unbelievable as it is to have him back, he doesn't feel whole again, not yet. Eddie hasn't crept in and filled in the gaps like before; he's worried he sealed them away for good, that no one, not even Eddie, could ever get through again. And it’s not exactly like he can tell Andie. He can just imagine that conversation. “_Hey, remember that friend I was mourning? Well he’s back from the dead, and I’m still painfully in love with him, any tips?_”

He turns the hot water all the way to the right when he tries to think about what he'll do if he loses him again, and focuses on the red-hot burn of the water sluicing his skin until he banishes the thought. 

His brain is still mush when he gets out of the shower. He dresses quickly, not bothering to brush his hair or waste time with any other of his usual grooming rituals. The ten minutes he’s spent out of Eddie’s sight have made him all tense and jittery. But when he knocks on the spare bathroom door, Eddie calls out to him that he’s fine, and Richie takes a deep breath. Jesus, this is going to get real old real fast.

His doorbell rings a few minutes later. When Richie answers it, Bill envelops him in a huge hug immediately, holding tight around his shoulders, bags of breakfast thumping against his back. 

“Hi, Bill,” Richie laughs. Bills arms tighten until he's nearly suffocating. “Jesus, can’t wait to see what you do to Eddie.”  
  
“Richie,” Bill says seriously as he pulls back. “Holy _shit_, Richie.”  
  
“I know,” Richie says. He helps Bill with the bags and leads him to the kitchen. “He’s still in the shower, probably scrubbing the entire top layer of his skin off.”

Bill chuckles nervously. Richie unloads the bags, and Bill helps him after a long moment of just staring at him. He’s brought more food than Richie has in his entire house, egg sandwiches, pancakes, fruit cups, bacon, yogurt parfait, sausage. Richie whistles at the picture it makes spread out over his counter.

“Jesus, Bill, you know Eddie’s just a little guy, right? He didn’t get any bigger beyond the veil.”  
  
“S-sorry,” Bill says, smiling a little. “I didn’t know w-what he’d be hungry for.”

“Fair enough. I only offered him burnt toast, so.”

They’re quiet for a minute while Richie pours another cup of coffee, offering one to Bill. He shakes his head, and then fixes Richie with a look so serious Richie’s afraid he’s going to announce his own imminent death.

“What’s up, Bill?”

“Rich, all that time, why— why did Eddie only s-show himself to y-you?”

Well fuck. It’s one of the many questions Richie’s been avoiding, kept it carefully tucked in the back burner of his mind. It’s not a question of why; Richie is fairly sure he knows why. He’s not exactly keen on telling the full truth of it just yet, not when he hasn’t even had a conversation with Eddie about it. He bites his lip and takes a sip of coffee as he considers what to tell Bill.

“I don’t know,” he says stupidly, and decides on a watered down version of his theory. “I mean… I think, probably because I was the most fucked up about his death, you know?” Understatement of the fucking year. “Maybe he was like, attracted to that, or something. That I was still so fucking hung up on it.”

Bill doesn’t say anything. He looks weirdly unhappy about that answer, and clenches his jaw.  
  
“That’s not— I’m not saying you guys didn’t mourn him, okay? Or that you didn’t— didn’t love him, just that. I was a fucking mess, for like, a really long time. Like, up until the moment he fell asleep on my couch yesterday.”

“I get it, Richie,” Bill says softly. He looks sincere and serious enough that Richie thinks that he _really_ gets it.

_I know your dirty little secret_.

“Bill?” Eddie’s voice comes from the entry. 

Bill whips around, and is across the room in two seconds flat, wrapping Eddie in a fierce hug. Eddie hugs him back just as tight, eyes falling shut as he squeezes Bill’s back. Bill mutters something Richie can’t make out in Eddie’s ear, and Eddie nods fervently. Bill pulls back, holding Eddie with a hand on the back of his neck, and just stares at him for a long moment.

“Jesus,” Bill says shakily, laughing and shaking his head. “Jesus, I don’t t-think anything c-could’ve prepared me for this.” 

“_You?_” Eddie says. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a fucking bulldozer.”  
  
Bill laughs, and Richie can hear the tears warble in his throat. He fights his own when Bill turns around and leads Eddie to the counter.  
  
“I got some of everything, I’m sure you’re s-starving,” Bill says. Eddie immediately digs into the pancakes, pulling a few egg sandwiches onto a plate.

"Oh thank god," Eddie sighs before demolishing everything on his plate. 

For awhile there’s just the sound of the three of them eating. Bill watches Eddie closely the entire time, filling Eddie in on everything that’s been going on with him since Derry. Eddie mostly listens in silence, shoveling more food in his mouth than Richie had ever thought his small frame could handle. When he finishes, he pushes his plate away with a heavy contented sigh, leaning his head back.

“Thanks, Bill,” Eddie says. “I was worried I was gonna die again from starvation.”

“Hey, I was going to feed you, chill the fuck out—“  
  
“You’re forty fucking years old and only had one loaf of bread in your whole house, Richie.”  
  
“Uh, I had coffee too, assface, and a frozen lasagna.”

“Oh, right, my mistake,” Eddie says sarcastically.

“Guys, uh, hey. S-sorry but I have a meeting with my pu-publisher,” Bill interrupts, laughing at Richie, mouth open to retaliate. “I tried to re-reschedule but h-he’s going to Europe tomorrow, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t sweat it,” Richie assures him.

“I’ll be back tonight, I’m p-picking up Ben and Bev.”  
  
“Sounds good, Bill. Thanks again for the food.”  
  
“Of course,” Bill says, waving a hand.

They walk Bill to the door, and Bill pulls Eddie into a hug again before he leaves.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Bill tells him, eyes looking misty again.

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. “Me too.”  
  
Bill pulls away and slaps Richie on the shoulder. “See you t-tonight. Don’t kill each other before then.”

“Ha ha, get out Bill,” Richie says, pushing him out the door.

With a final wave, Bill disappears, leaving them alone again. Richie closes the door and looks at Eddie tugging nervously at Richie’s Van Halen t-shirt.

“Well. What now?” Richie asks.

Eddie considers for a minute. “Got any video games?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love the losers
> 
> [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/) <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the lovely feedback from the last chapter, I will eventually reply to everyone <3 I loved reading everyone's theories, you're all way smarter than me. also peep the new tags I added since im dragging this way tf out apparently

_It’s dark._

_He was never scared of the dark, not really. Not like he was scared of germs and bacteria, of the horrible way his throat closed up during an asthma attack. The dark didn't stick him with needles, or shove pills down his throat. The dark was frightening, but it didn't fill him with the same dread he felt in hospitals, with their scrubs and oxygen masks, and the antiseptic air that made his eyes sting. But this is different. This darkness is bleak, oppressive, suffocating in its own right._

_“Richie?”_  
  
_His voice is fragile, and thin. He holds a hand in front of his face and he can’t see it, no matter how close it is. He can barely feel the pull of his muscle, the bend of his knuckles. If this is death, it is not fucking peaceful. It’s lonely, and so fucking unbearably dark, and even though he doesn’t seem to ** need ** to breathe, he feels them coming quicker all the same. _

_“Rich? Bill?” He tries again. His voice is no louder than a whisper. “Beverly? Mike?”_

_A brush of air tickles his cheek. He turns, body dragging sluggishly the way it does in dreams. He sees nothing, but he can feel the presence of something, or someone, and hopes to god it’s not any of the others, that it’s not Richie._

_Slowly, the dark recedes, and he makes out a figure approaching him from a distance. He stays where he is, looking around for a weapon, for a hiding place, for _ ** _anything_**_,_ _ but all he can see is vast open space. He can’t find the point of light that’s slowly illuminating the person approaching him._

_“Hello?” He calls hesitantly. The person keeps walking; a few steps closer and he can see it’s a child. A few more, and with a jolt he recognizes his own clothes, his own eyes and nose and hair, his own fanny pack that he never went without._

_“What the fuck,” he breathes._

_His younger self comes to a stop a few feet from him, looking him over the same way he is. For a long time they just stare at each other. Eddie glances down at his own chest, drenched in blood, shirt ruined, making sure he’s really himself._

_“So we don’t really get any taller, huh?” his younger self asks._

_“What—“ is all he can manage. Young Eddie raises his eyebrows, face twisting into a smirk. He sobers when he sees the gash in his stomach._

_“That fucking sucks,” he says, nodding to the wound. “Did it hurt?” He winces. “Did it get infected?”_

_“I—“ Eddie says, glancing down then back at his younger self. He doesn’t seem scared, or squeamish, or horrified. Just curious, genuinely so._

_“Yeah, it hurt like a bitch,” Eddie tells him. “Didn’t get a chance to get infected.”_  
  
_“Right,” young Eddie says. “Probably good we died right away. Richie’s jacket would’ve definitely given us staph.”_  
  
_ Eddie feels permanently lightheaded in this place, but that almost knocks him out cold, if such a thing is even possible anymore. “How did you know that?”_

_"You're carrying it, dipshit." _  
  
_ For the first time he's aware of the crushed fabric in his other hand. A brief glimpse down confirms its Richie's, leather tainted and shiny with Eddie's blood. _

_He looks up and sees his own smile crease his younger face, and maybe it should feel menacing, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t feel any sense of fear from this… thing before him. The longer he looks at him, the more at ease he feels. He thinks fleetingly of what Richie would say: that he’s a fucking idiot for trusting a ghost of his younger self, that something sinister is obviously happening here, you fucking moron. But when his younger self holds out his hand, Eddie steps forward and takes it without hesitation, limbs heavy as lead as they walk. _

_He doesn’t know where he’s taking himself, and young Eddie doesn’t offer any insight. They walk, the light above them expanding, dark corners disappearing, until it blazes in his retinas and all he can do is put one foot in front of the other, holding tight to the small hand in his…_

* * *

“So... what’s his name?”  
  
Richie steers Daisy around a banana peel, biting his bottom lip in concentration. Eddie catches up to him, and Waluigi rams into Daisy's car as he passes him.

“Asshole! Fuck. Who’s name?” Richie says distractedly. He shoots a red turtle shell that hits Mario instead of Waluigi, and he swears again.

“Your boyfriend.”  
  
Richie jerks, and Daisy flies off the course and into the cloudy abyss. Richie looks over, abandoning the game entirely to gape at Eddie. Eddie keeps his eyes on the screen, tongue poking out of his mouth a little.

“What boyfriend?” he manages after a minute. 

Eddie glances over. “The one I saw at Manuela.” 

“Manuela?”  
  
“The restaurant, dipshit. Tall, blonde— you looked like you were having fun.” Richie continues to stare, and Eddie snorts. “You literally told Bev you were on a date when I… do you not _remember_?”

“It was called _Manuela_?”  
  
“Jesus Richie, how have you made it this far in life, seriously?” Eddie says exasperatedly. “Are you gonna finish the lap or what?”

Richie shakes his head and picks the controller back up. He’s the last one to finish lap three, of course, and he drops the controller the second it ends. He stands, disrupting the blanket that they were sharing, which falls to the floor in a puddle of fabric.

“Hey, we’ve got another race left in the cup!” Eddie protests. Richie looks down at him, cross legged on the couch and indignant.

“His name is Ryan,” Richie says slowly. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

A pause. Eddie stares steadily at him and shrugs. “Okay.”  
  
“Okay.”

They continue to stare at each other for a long moment. Richie studies his face intently, but all Eddie does is look blankly at him, eyebrows raised slightly. After a full minute of their little staring contest, Eddie sighs and pauses the game, uncrosses his legs and turns fully towards Richie.

“Well I’m not ruining our streak for your gay crisis or whatever, so out with it.”  
  
“It’s not a fucking _crisis_,” Richie protests.

He doesn’t elaborate beyond that. Eddie looks at him, then at his lap. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, as though he can’t find the words he wants to say. Richie waits, as patiently as he can manage, but Eddie doesn’t spit it out.

“Richie, you know I—“ he starts finally, his fingers rubbing over his closed eyes a few times. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and seems to come to some kind of decision. “You know I don’t give a shit, right? I mean, I’m like, I _care_, of course, I’m happy for you, but it doesn’t— it doesn’t change anything. It— it couldn’t.”

Richie nods, swallowing hard. He knew deep down Eddie would be fine about it, of course, yet coming out to him in this weird, backhanded way felt infinitely scarier than when he told the whole world.

“Um… thanks Eds,” Richie says sincerely. “You uh, get Vanity Fair in the afterlife?” 

“What?” Eddie asks. "What does that have to do with--"

“You know, cause I— I came out in Vanity Fair.”

“You _did_?” Eddie says, gaping a little. “Jesus, that must’ve been… _fuck_.” 

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, dragging out the vowels. Eddie blinks at him, and realization comes to him sharply, like a rubber band snapping him square in the face. “You… you always knew, didn’t you.” 

It’s not really a question. Eddie glances at his lap, then back at Richie, and nods. “Yeah, Rich.”

There’s a very sudden, very real danger that he’ll burst into tears. Eddie _knew_, probably forever, since they were kids, and it didn’t matter. He feels incredibly fucking stupid, and a little guilty, for ever worrying that he would have cared, for ever being scared of losing him if he knew the truth.

Richie takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes to stave off the tears. When he collects himself and puts them back on, Eddie is smiling at him. Richie takes another second to memorize the pattern of his crows feet, the crease of his dimples. Eddie pats the cushion next to him, and without another word Richie falls back into it and picks up the controller.

“Ready?” Eddie says, thumb hovering over the button.

“No,” Richie answers, surprising himself a little. Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Since we’re doing this, uh… what about you?”

Eddie’s always pale, but he’s suddenly _really_ fucking pale, though there’s a hint of a flush creeping up his neck at the same time. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“I mean, your wife…” Richie says hesitantly. Eddie averts his gaze, takes a few large gulps of the water that’s been sitting untouched on the coffee table. “Have you thought about… um… calling her?”

He can only see Eddie’s profile, but he can see his face shutter into something blank and hard. The tinny game music is the only sound in the room for a long minute.

“I’m not— I mean, I’m not trying to push you out, or anything, swear,” Richie says, hoping Eddie can hear the sincerity. “Really, you can stay like, forever, if you want. I just… one of us had to bring it up.”

“No, you didn’t,” Eddie argues, voice clipped. He looks at his lap, picks at a loose thread in Richie’s sweats. Richie waits, fingers tingling with nervous energy, drumming them against his knee incessantly.

“She— how was she, at the funeral?” Eddie asks.

“Um, I— she—“ Richie stammers, thrown by the question. He wasn’t really aware of anything but his own grief at Eddie’s funeral. He’s not even sure he could pick her out of a lineup at this point, but he racks his brain, and distinctly remembers seeing tears on her cheeks for the brief moment they met. “She was sad, dude, like… really sad, of course.”  
  
Eddie huffs a cynical little laugh. “I doubt that. We weren’t on great terms, even before Derry. She thought I— it doesn’t matter.” Eddie rubs a weary hand down his face. “Point is, she’s probably relieved I didn’t come back.”  
  
“No way,” Richie says fervently. “Eddie, you were her _husband_, man. Whatever was going on, she like… she loved you, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie responds. “Maybe. But it’s probably best if I just… keep things this way. She wouldn’t...”  
  
He trails off, gaze trained on the animation on the screen. They both watch Mario zoom around Rainbow Road for awhile, and he hates himself for what he says next.

“Eddie, you have to tell her you’re alive,” Richie says eventually. The selfish part of him kicks the noble one in the nuts. 

“Why?” Eddie snaps, looking up at Richie almost angrily. “Why do I _have_ to? I don’t even know if I am alive, Richie, and if I _am_, how could I ever explain this to her? And why should I have to go back to a life of— of— _fuck_.”

He stands again, paces around the living room while Richie watches silently. “She was just like my fucking mother, Richie. Myra was—_is_— controlling, and obsessive, and made me scared of goddamn everything, and I don’t want— _god_, I’m so fucked up.”

“Who isn’t?” Richie says lightly. “I mean it Eddie, we all— we’ve all got our shit, okay? That was like, the whole fucking point of Pennywise, right? Exposing our fears and exploiting them… we _all_ have our shit. You’re alright, Eds. You’re gonna be okay.”

Eddie just stares at him, and his lip wobbles dangerously. Richie doesn’t think he can handle any more tears today, so he gets up and puts his hands on Eddie’s shoulders to ground him. 

“Look, we don’t have to decide anything now,” Richie tells him gently. “If you don’t want to go back to her, no one is forcing you. You’re can stay here as long as you need. As long as you want. We’ll figure it out later.” 

Eddie nods gratefully, letting out a harsh breath. Richie drops his hands, about to step back when Eddie catches one of his sleeves.

“Rich…” Eddie starts.

He doesn’t seem to know how to continue. He just holds tight to Richie’s shirt and watches him with a pained expression.

“It’s okay, Eds,” Richie says after a prolonged bout of staring. He glances at the TV and grins when he sees the time. “Hey, look, you’ve been here a full twenty-four hours! It’s a new record.”  
  
Eddie rolls his eyes, but he seems to relax a bit all the same. “It was a new record after the first hour, dummy.”  
  
“Okay, then it’s a super record, whatever,” Richie retorts.

“What the hell is a super record?” 

“Exactly what it sounds like.”  
  
Eddie says something snotty in return, but Richie has no idea what it is, because at that second Eddie lets go of his sleeve and brushes his hand down Richie’s arm like it’s nothing. Like it’s not lighting up his skin everywhere it touches. Luckily he’s spared trying to figure out what he said by a knock at the door.

“That’s probably them,” Eddie says, licking his lips nervously. Richie squeezes his arm briefly before stepping around him to the entryway. Eddie is right at his back, huddling close. Richie glances over his shoulder, and Eddie nods for him to open the door. 

Bill, Ben, and Beverly are on the porch. Richie barely has the door open before Bev is darting around him to Eddie, hugging him so hard Eddie winces. Ben is right behind her, hugging Eddie from the other side. Like Bill, they’re both whispering things to Eddie that he can’t hear, and he’s reminded horribly of the empty casket at Eddie’s funeral. 

“Well fuck me I guess,” Richie says loudly. Bev extricates herself from the three-way hug and turns to Richie with tears streaming down her face.

“We’ll be sure to give you extra attention when you come back from the dead, Rich,” she says, pulling him in for a tight hug. Ben pulls away from Eddie too, and hugs Richie when Bev has decided she’s had her fill and makes her way back over to Eddie’s side.

“I’ll g-g-get the bags,” Bill says, watching the reunion patiently from the stoop and smiling.

“I’ll help,” Richie tells him, glancing at Eddie warily from the doorway. “Uh… keep an eye on him, Bev.”  
  
“Fuck off, Richie,” Eddie says. Richie flips him off and follows Bill to the street.

“They were completely b-buzzing the en-entire drive over,” Bill tells him. “B-Bev wouldn’t stop asking me questions the whole way.”

“Well she can get in line,” Richie says. They lug two suitcases and a carry on bag out of Bill's trunk and start dragging them back to the house. “When does Mike get in?”

“Soon. He’s gonna g-get a cab. He c-called from his layover.”  
  
When they get back into the house, Ben and Bev have Eddie cornered on the couch. Bev is sitting on his right, rubbing Eddie’s back soothingly, Ben on his left. Ben has a comforting hand on his knee as Eddie recounts something to them. Richie tells himself firmly not to be jealous. It doesn’t work.

“… do you remember seeing anyone?” Bev is asking when Richie and Bill join them.

Eddie shakes his head. “No one but Richie.”  
  
The other three look at Richie simultaneously. “What? I can’t help it if he loves me the most.”

They all smile, but Richie only sees Eddie’s, and the tiny blush that creeps into his cheeks. “Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says weakly.

Bev opens her mouth to ask another question, but Ben removes his hand from Eddie’s knee and touches her shoulder gently. “Bev, we should probably wait for Mike before we keep pestering him.”  
  
“Yeah, he’s the one with the answers,” Richie agrees. He can see how Eddie relaxes a bit at the suggestion. “Let’s get some pizza or something, relax until Mike gets in.”

They all murmur in agreement. Bill takes care of ordering, and after a heated debate over toppings, they end up with four separate pizzas. Ben and Bev tell Eddie about their new house, about how they spend all their free time out on the water. Eddie listens intently, only speaking to ask questions. He glances over at Richie every two minutes. When Ben gets up to use the bathroom, Richie takes his place next to Eddie. Eddie’s rigid composure softens instantly when Richie settles in next to him. He all but melts into Richie’s side, pressing against him everywhere, all without taking his eyes off Bev as she tells him a story about the first time they took their dog out on the boat. Richie’s skin prickles everywhere Eddie touches him.

“Oh, shit,” Bev says suddenly about thirty minutes into their conversation. “Ben, we didn’t get a hotel!”

“You don’t need a hotel,” Richie says, waving a hand. The movement knocks Eddie's arm, and the water in his hand slops over onto Eddie's leg. He says something bitchy that Richie ignores. “You can stay here, I have an extra room.”

Ben looks between him and Eddie, who's fretting over the water in his lap with napkins. “But isn’t Eddie—?”

Eddie perks up at that. “No, I uh. Slept on the couch last night. You guys take the room" he says.  
  
“You’re not sleeping on the couch!” Ben insists. “No, we’ll get a room.”  
  
“You c-c-can stay with me,” Bill offers.  
  
Bev looks suspicious. “Your wife won’t mind?” she asks shrewdly.

Bill opens his mouth, and closes it. “Well, s-s-she… I mean, I can—“  
  
“No, Bill, it’s okay,” Ben tells him. “We don’t want to intrude, or make things awkward for her.”

Richie and Eddie exchange a glance. He’s pretty sure it isn’t Bill’s wife that would feel awkward with Ben and Bev in the same house.

“Just stay here,” Richie repeats. “The hotels around here are shit, anyway, and way fucking overpriced. I have the room.”

“You sure?” Bev asks, looking significantly at Eddie behind his back.  
  
“Yes,” Richie says emphatically. “The more eyes to watch baby Houdini here, the better.”

“Dick,” Eddie snaps. He elbows Richie in the side.

Ben smiles and nods, squeezing Bev’s shoulder. “Thanks Richie.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

They’re interrupted by the pizza guy. Bill pays him, which Richie is eternally grateful for, as he doesn’t much feel like moving from Eddie’s side. They eat around the coffee table, not bothering with plates, chatting animatedly about nothing in particular. Eddie scarfs down five slices by himself, and doesn’t once bitch about other people’s fingers touching the crusts.

He does eventually get up after they eat to show Ben and Bev to their room, and helps them with their luggage. Bill follows them and pulls Richie aside when they start unpacking.   
  
“Rich, Eddie c-can stay with me if you want. Th-then everyone will have a bed.”

Richie chews his bottom lip. The idea of Eddie being out of his sight for that long makes him a little ill. He’s really gonna have to circle back to that, and figure out what the fuck to do about it eventually.

“Thanks Bill, I’ll uh. I’ll see what he wants to do.”

Bill smiles and taps Richie’s shoulder. Bev calls Bill over to show him something on her phone, and Richie takes the opportunity to slip out and find Eddie.

Eddie’s cleaning up, because of course he is. He’s stacking empty pizza boxes, and putting the leftovers in some foil he found in Richie’s kitchen drawers. He looks up when Richie enters the kitchen.

“Your kitchen is disgusting, Richie,” Eddie tells him right away, wrinkling his nose at some invisible dirt on the counter. “When’s the last time you deep cleaned?”  
  
“Deep cleaned?” Richie echoes. Eddie makes a pained noise and gapes at him.

“Jesus, you’re like an animal, where is your bleach?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just bends starts pawing through Richie’s cabinet under the sink like he owns the place. Richie sighs and tugs him upright by the arm; he doesn’t let go when Eddie straightens and looks at him.

“Eds,” Richie says. “Bill, um. Bill said you can stay with him, if you want.”

Eddie frowns, and Richie tries not to be a little thrilled about it. “Why would I?”

“Well, you’d have a bed there, and privacy,” Richie explains.

Eddie directs his frown at the floor. “Do you want me to stay there?” Eddie asks.

“It’s up to you, man, whatever you—“  
  
“No,” Eddie says, weirdly serious. He looks back at Richie, eyes blazing with something Richie can't parse. “Do you _want_ me to go?"

“No,” Richie says immediately, without hesitation. The look on Eddie’s face tells him he needs to say it. “No. I— I want you to stay.”

His hand has drifted to Eddie’s wrist without realizing it. He squeezes it, and Eddie relaxes and grins.

“Good. Because I swear if someone doesn’t scrub this place, you’re gonna be in the hospital in a week with strep, or salmonella poisoning, Christ’s sake Richie.”

Richie lets him go, and he starts digging for cleaning supplies that he won’t find, muttering to himself. Richie leaves him to it, and finds that Bill and Ben have gathered back in the living room, engaged in quiet conversation. They look up when Richie joins them on the couch.

“He’s gonna stay here,” Richie tells Bill. Bill nods, and shares a knowing little look with Ben, who’s too kind to be too overt about it and looks at his hands instead.

“What?” he says defensively. “I just asked and he said he wants to stay here!”

“We didn’t say anything, Richie,” Ben says.

Richie opens his mouth to respond, but a knock at the door interrupts him. Saved by the bell for the third fucking time.

“Mike," Eddie says softly.  
  
Eddie is at the threshold between the kitchen and living room, looking more apprehensive than he had for any of the other reunions. Richie feels his own roll of nausea when he contemplates what Mike might tell them.

“Uh. I’ll get it,” Ben offers when Richie and Eddie do nothing more than stare at the door. Bill joins him; Eddie materializes next to Richie in their absence, fingers clutching at Richie's shirtsleeve absently.

He hears Ben and Bill greet Mike, the unmistakeable sound of hands clapping backs, the customary “how was the flight?”, “fine, how was yours?”, the shuffle of luggage. Eddie inches closer to Richie, brushing his arm. Without thinking, he wraps it around Eddie’s shoulders and tugs him close. Eddie leans into it, and Richie doesn’t have time to grapple with that, because Mike walks in with Ben and Bill a second later.

“Eddie… oh my god,” Mike breathes, drinking him in the way everyone else has. Richie releases Eddie just as Mike reaches out, and watches them embrace. He studies Mike for warning signs, looking for hesitation or heartbreak in his expression, in the way he hugs Eddie, but gleans nothing. Mike looks just as elated as the rest of them had to have Eddie alive and well in his arms.

When they pull back, Eddie is practically vibrating with anxiety. He immediately starts to ask a question, but Mike stops him with a gentle hand on his neck.

“I’m going to tell you everything I know, Eddie,” Mike says calmly. His cool demeanor spreads to everyone in the room. Richie sees shoulders release, hears the exhales echo from one person to the next. “Where’s Bev?”  
  
“She took a shower. I’ll get her,” Ben says.  
  
Mike turns to Richie when Ben leaves and hugs him as well. “Good to see you Rich.”  
  
“Thanks Mike,” Richie whispers. He tightens his arms, thinking of the bags under Mike’s eyes, of everything he’s done for them. “Thank you.”

Mike smiles serenely and takes a seat in the armchair. Bill, Richie, and Eddie sit opposite on the couch, waiting.

“Oh, shit,” Richie says suddenly. “Jesus, sorry, do you want a drink? Some pizza?”

Mike laughs. “I’m okay, Rich. I ate on the way.” 

“You sure? Nothing?”

“I’m fine, really— Beverly!”

Bev comes in the room, followed by Ben, and throws herself into Mike’s waiting arms. Her hair is wet, and a piece of it sticks to Mike’s cheek.

“So glad you’re here,” Bev tells him when they part. She touches his cheek, damp from her hair, and Mike smiles warmly at her. She joins Ben on the loveseat, and Mike sits back down to face his captive audience. 

* * *

_Young Eddie stops walking abruptly, and Eddie nearly trips over his own feet, which have been dragging him through this weird fucking place on autopilot. Young Eddie drops his hand and steps a few paces ahead of him, looking up to the… sky? Ceiling? He doesn't know. Nothing has changed around them, everything is still a blank canvass of nothing. Every few minutes, or hours for all he knows, a kaleidoscope of color flashes around them and illuminates their trek. He still hasn’t figured out where it’s coming from, or how his younger self knew where to take them._

_“Where are we?” Eddie asks, voice tenuous and wispy._

_“Dunno.” His young counterpart shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. His head tilts to the side, but he doesn’t stop looking up. “This is where we wait.”_

_“Wait? For what?” Eddie presses._

_Young Eddie doesn’t answer. Eddie takes a couple shaky steps closer and grabs his shoulder, and feels a featherlight sensation of his own shoulder being touched. No one is there when he turns around._

_“Hey? What are we waiting for?” Eddie repeats, shaking his shoulder a little. His younger self just continues to look up serenely, seeing something Eddie can’t. “I need to go back. My friends— _ ** _our_ ** _ friends, they need me. Us. Whatever.”_

_“You can’t help them.”_

_Eddie shudders, and takes a step back._

_“Yes I can,” he argues. “I can get them out of there, I can help them kill It—“_  
  
_ “It is dead,” young Eddie tells him._

_A surge of relief sings through to his core, strong enough to knock him on his ass, and he chokes out a halfhearted sob. “They did it?”_

_“Yes.” Finally, young Eddie drops his gaze and turns around. “Do you want to see?”_  
  
_ “See? See what? It?” Young Eddie blinks at him. “No, I don’t want to see that psychotic fuckwad, thank you. Never again.”_  
  
_ “Not It. Do you want to see him?”_

_He doesn’t need to ask who he means. He doesn’t need to think about his answer either, it tumbles from his mouth without hesitation, like he’d been waiting all night for him to ask._

_“Yes, yes I—“_  
  
_ Blinding, searing light. Eddie covers his eyes, swearing quietly as it possesses his every sense, as a ringing sound grows louder and louder in his ears until he’s not aware of anything but light and sound and prickling heat on his skin. It stops as suddenly as it started, and when he blinks the white spots out of his vision, he’s on a nondescript porch, looking out at the sky. It’s dark, middle of the night, he guesses from the silence around him. He looks down, sees the blood still wet on his shirt, sees his hands pale at his side. He tries to lift one, but his limbs seem disconnected from his brain. Even with heavy concentration, he can’t lift it, can only twitch his fingers weakly._

_His instinct is to panic, but he doesn’t seem to be capable of it. The breeze ghosts over his feverish skin; he can barely feel it. He looks out at the night, and recognizes Richie’s car in the lot, a spot of bright red in the inky-black night. He stares at it for a long time, trying to discern if Richie is in it, and manages to lift a hand to the banister and lean forward for a closer look, but it doesn’t matter. His question is answered with the sound of a door creaking open, a quiet gasp behind him._

_“Eds?”_

_It takes everything he has, but he manages to make his body listen. He turns, and there he is, looking at Eddie like he’s never seen him, and like he’s the only thing he **can** see. Richie’s face crumples, tears welling in his eyes, and Eddie tries to speak but his vocal cords refuse to cooperate._

_“Eddie, Eds, I’m sorry,” Richie chokes, voice thick. Tears stream down his cheeks, and Eddie concentrates, desperate to make it stop, to reach for him. “I’m so sorry, I’m so—“_

_“You killed It, Rich,” he manages. He can hear how flat it sounds, how emotionless, his body doing the absolute bare minimum to get the words out. Richie nods, half smile touching his cheeks._

_“_**_We_ ** _ did, Eddie. We got the fucker.” _

_He can’t speak again, can’t even whisper, or move. He’s drained, he feels himself slipping, and it feels like falling. Richie starts to blur at the edges, but he can tell he’s closer than before, can see Richie’s hand reaching out to him. Distantly, he hears Beverly’s voice, but he can’t see her. He only sees Richie, the rest fading away like tunnel vision, and Richie is his point of light. Richie turns around, and then it’s all gone. The last thing he’s aware of is Richie’s voice. He hears, as if from under water, “Eddie, it’s— Eddie’s here, he’s— don’t you see?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a significant amount of this chapter was spent deciding who r and e main in mario kart, and no I will not be taking constructive criticism on the matter
> 
> [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please remember as you read this chapter that i still have not read the book and am just pulling lore out of my ass here

“Alright, well. Might as well jump right in,” Mike says, clasping his hands together. “First, Eddie, um— do you mind if I look at the wound?” 

Richie feels Eddie stiffen next to him, but he nods and stands, and Mike steps closer. Eddie lifts his shirt, exposing the red and bruised skin; a collective gasp echoes around the room. 

“You guys flatter me,” Eddie jokes dryly. Richie and Ben chuckle nervously, but everyone else’s eyes are trained on Eddie’s chest and stomach, wide and aghast. 

“Oh my god, Eddie,” Bev breathes. “Do you… remember it?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, wincing a little. “I think breaking my arm hurt worse though.”   
  
“Bullshit,” Richie barks. “Breaking your arm hurt worse than a giant spider claw through your fucking _chest_?”  
  
“It’s called shock, dumbfuck,” Eddie retorts. He drops his shirt with a huff. “And in case you weren’t aware, having some inexperienced, pimple faced shithead snap your bones back into place fucking _hurts_.”

“It looks good, Eddie,” Mike interrupts before Richie can defend himself, nodding at Eddie’s chest. Eddie sits back down, pressed against Richie shoulder to calf despite the huffiness. “Any pain now?” 

“Only if I press on it, kind of like a bruise.” 

“Good.” 

There’s a pause. Mike hesitates, then clears his throat and asks, “Eddie, it would help if you could tell us anything that you remember, to start with.” 

Eddie tenses again. Richie pats his thigh on instinct and leaves his hand there; he doesn’t push it away. Eddie inhales shakily, and says, “Um. Okay.”

“Okay. I uh, remember everything up until I died. I remember Richie leaving to help you kill It, and the weird shit you were yelling at him,” Eddie says with a laugh. They all laugh with him except Richie, who’s hand tightens reflexively when Eddie mentions his name. Eddie fidgets a little. “Then um. Then it was dark, like, really fucking dark, but I was… I was aware, you know? Like I could think and hear and talk and shit, but I felt like… like not real, I guess. 

And then the dark kinda… it got lighter, and… Jesus, you’re gonna think…” 

“Eddie, no one thinks anything,” Ben says. “We believe you.” 

“You say that now,” Eddie says. He takes a deep breath. He speaks progressively faster as he talks in that unique, smooth way that only he can manage where he never falters, never trips over his words. “Anyway, I can finally see, and I can see… myself, but, younger, walking towards me. Like, me from twenty-seven years ago, fanny pack and all. And he’s— _I’m_— talking to _me_, and then we start walking, and there’s these weird lights and colors that I cant ever really focus on, and— we stop. And he tells me that you killed It, and that I can’t help you anymore. And then he asks if I want to see Richie—“

Richie’s head swims, goes weirdly blank, and the hand on Eddie’s leg slides off as he goes a little limp. 

“— and then there’s this _crazy_ bright light, like, starting directly into the sun blinding light, and I’m on the porch at the townhouse, and I can barely move or speak but I can _see_ Richie, and hear him. And Bev, I could hear you too, but I couldn’t see you… and then it’s like, like I pass out and I’m back in the fucking— hells' waiting room, or whatever. And I start yelling at my younger self, asking what the fuck is happening, screaming at him to get me out of there…” 

He takes an unsteady breath, and Richie isn’t the only one that reaches for him. Bill reaches over from Eddie’s other side and rubs the back of his neck, and Bev gets up and sits at Eddie’s feet, rubbing his arms soothingly when his face drops into his hands. Richie’s arm wraps around Eddie’s back, and he can feel Eddie shaking. 

“Sorry, guys,” Eddie says thickly. 

“No, Eddie, don’t. Don’t apologize,” Bill says. “Not to us, e-ever.”

They wait, giving Eddie a minute to compose himself. Eddie leans into Richie, who tightens the arm around his back, squeezing his shoulder gently. Bev is leaning against Eddie’s knee, hands clasped on top, and Eddie reaches down and closes his own over them. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

Mike nods to himself and takes a breath. “Okay, Eddie, we can stop, I just—“ 

“No,” Eddie says firmly. “No, if it’ll help, it’s fine. I’m fine.” 

“You're sure?" 

Eddie nods, face set and determined.

Mike continues, "Okay, just tell me... do you remember seeing anything else? Anything other than your younger self?” 

Eddie’s eyes glaze over, seeing something none of them are privy to. It takes a long time for him to speak again. 

* * *

_Eddie collapses, spent from screaming himself hoarse, and curls into a tight ball. Richie was there, was right _ ** _fucking_ ** _ there, and Eddie couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say fucking anything. And his little shithead clone had done nothing but stare blankly at him as he screamed, and was now back to staring at the sky impassively, creepy dead eyed motherfucker. _

_“Why aren’t you more upset about this?” he demands of him, voice ragged. Eddie sees the back of his head bend, consider his feet while Eddie continues to berate him. “It’s _ ** _Richie_ ** _. It’s Richie, and Bill, and Bev, Ben, Mike… and we lost them, don’t you care?” _

_“They lost _ ** _us_ ** _,” his voice corrects him. He looks back up, and doesn’t say another word on the matter. _

_Christ. Christ, he’s really, really dead. He’s not sure why it didn’t process before, why he didn’t believe it until now. Maybe because he’s still fucking conscious. Death is supposed to be bliss, it’s supposed to be oblivion, and he’s not perfect, but he didn’t think he ever did anything to deserve whatever this is, be it hell or purgatory or whatever the _ ** _fuck_ ** _ this torture is. _

_“Stan,” he gasps suddenly, hope inflating like a balloon. “Stan— is he here?” _ ** _Please tell me I’m not alone_ ** _._

_“No. He’s already been here.” _

_“_ ** _What_ ** _? What the fuck does that mean?” he asks desperately. “I need something, man, anything—“_

_“He’s here.” _

_Eddie scrambles upright, rushes over to his side. He looks up, then back at his younger self, then up again. “Where? You just said he wasn’t coming, I don’t see him—” _

_“Not Stan,” young Eddie corrects. Eddie feels a sinking feeling where his heart used to be. “Look.” _

_Eddie looks, but he can’t see shit. He’s just about to pop off again, mentally debating the risk vs reward of throttling a younger version of himself in purgatory when a shadow, larger than anything he’s ever seen, darkens everything around them..._

* * *

“A shadow,” Mike repeats. 

Eddie nods tightly. “Yeah I never— I never got a good look, it was fucking massive.”

“Did it speak to you?” Mike asks. 

“I don’t— sort of?” Eddie says. “It was like he— like it was in my head. I just suddenly knew shit, I can’t explain. He said— he said, that I wasn't ready, that I needed to go back, but then he just fucked off and I— fuck, I can’t— there's no way I can explain any of this.” 

He drops his head into his hands again. Richie wants to say something comforting, or something funny, to break the tension, but Eddie seems so fucking defeated, everything he thinks to say feels wrong. 

“Mike,” Ben says quietly, looking worriedly at Eddie hunched in Richie and Bev’s arms.. “Maybe… maybe you can tell Eddie what you’re thinking, and he can help fill in the blanks?” 

God, Richie could kiss him. And not just because of the chiseled jaw and washboard abs that he probably, definitely has. He feels Eddie exhale, and when he looks back up he also seems on the verge of reaching across the table and laying a fat one on Hanscom. 

“Yeah, okay, we can do that. Strap in, folks,” Mike starts, sitting up straighter. 

Richie releases his hold on Eddie finally, but Eddie responds by pressing closer and gently holding onto Richie’s elbow. And it’s not like it’s unusual for them to be touchy-feely with each other, and it’s _so_ not the fucking time, but what the fuck, what the fuck, _what the_ _fuck_.

“When I left Derry, I brought everything I learned from the Shokopiwah with me. When Richie called, I pored through everything I had, and came across something, another entity like It. The Shokopiwah even refer to it as It’s ‘brother’. It’s called— don’t laugh— The Turtle.” 

Richie laughs. So does Eddie, making Richie feel less like an asshole and maybe a little more in love with him. 

“The Turtle?” Eddie repeats incredulously. Everyone else is trying to hide a smile, while Mike remains deadly serious, mouth twisted in an annoyed yet resigned frown.

“I said _don’t laugh._ His name is Maturin, but he’s known as The Turtle colloquially.” 

“Maturin sounds _way_ more badass, why the fuck would he go by ‘The Turtle’?” Richie can’t help but ask. “What’s his superpower? Playing peekaboo? Slowly eating lettuce? Biting unsuspecting ten year olds for poking it’s shell?” 

“Biting—?“ Bill starts. “That’s oddly s-specific.” 

“Yeah, so I got beef with turtles, are you surprised?” Richie retorts. 

Bev shakes her hand fondly. Mike rolls his eyes, exceedingly patient considering what a nervous ass Richie is being. 

“Sorry. Anyway, magic Mr. Yertle. What’s his deal?” Richie prods. 

“His _deal_,” Mike says, “is the creation of the universe.” 

Crickets. 

“Come again?” Eddie says loudly. “You telling me I met what, _God_, and it was a massive fucking turtle that healed me and spat me back out here? A fucking _turtle_?” 

His voice gets higher and faster as he talks, and Richie can feel the kinetic energy radiating from him. He predicts he’s about five seconds from pacing the floor or destroying Richie’s entire living room, just to work it out of his system. 

Everyone else seems to still be digesting this. No one offers any other questions or comments, so Mike continues patiently, “I’m not saying that, Eddie. Some people believe that of him, yes, the same way some believe in God. And the lore around Maturin is tied inextricably to It, who we know was real. So, it’s my belief that he exists, and that he must possess some sort of ethereal power, just as It did.” 

“Fuck,” Bill breathes. “S-so there’s another one out there?” 

“No,” Mike assures him quickly. “No, Maturin is a relative of It, but he’s benevolent. He’s the antithesis of It. The Shokopiwah believe that together, they brought balance to the universe. In short, Maturin represents good, It represented evil.” 

“Okay,” Ben says slowly, glancing at Eddie in a way that makes Richie uneasy. “Okay but, we— we killed It, what does that mean for Maturin?” 

“Well, that’s where it gets complicated,” Mike admits. “The Shokopiwah have long thought that Maturin abandoned them after creating the universe, and his absence allowed for It to fester and grow. Many believed It killed Maturin, and sought to satisfy its bloodlust without Maturin’s interference. No matter how or why Maturin disappeared, it disrupted the balance, and allowed It to become powerful and unchecked for thousands of years. 

“Now, I believe that Maturin is alive. He is known to have enormous power, far more than It ever did, so it’s not a stretch that if he is real and alive, that he could have brought Eddie back.” 

“But why?” Bev asks. Eddie shoots her a look. “Not that you didn’t deserve to, of course not,” she adds to him, reaching up to touch his face. He softens, of course, and Bev offers a sweet smile before addressing Mike again. “Why would he bring Eddie back, and not the others? All those children, Georgie… Stan.” 

Her voice cracks on Stan’s name. Mike tilts his head, considering her. 

“Tell me, when you saw us die in the deadlights, did you see It kill Eddie?” 

Richie’s throat tightens instantly, and he closes his eyes, lights flashing behind his eyelids. It’s like he’s back in the deadlights himself, seeing Eddie die over and over, first in the burning glare of It’s grip, then in reality moments later. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

Richie and Beverly answer together. Eddie’s hand tightens on Richie’s elbow. Richie and Bev share a look, then direct it at Mike simultaneously. 

“No,” Beverly says first. She looks at Eddie sincerely, stricken. “I didn’t see it, Eddie. I would have. I would’ve told you, or kept you from Neibolt, _something_, I swear.

“It’s okay Bev,” Eddie says, covering her hand with his free one. Tears swim in Beverly’s eyes and she presses a soft kiss to Eddie’s knuckles.

“Richie? You saw it?” Ben asks.

Richie closes his eyes again. He feels Bev reach over from her spot at Eddie’s feet and touch his arm gently. 

“Yeah,” Richie says, voice strangled. He clears his throat. “Yeah, I saw it happen in the deadlights. Fucking over and over and over, and then once more with fucking feeling, and then— I come out, and take one fucking breath, there’s Eddie, and it fucking _happens_ and I was just, paralyzed… _fuck_.” 

This time Eddie reaches for him. The hand on Richie’s elbow trails down to his wrist, other hand brushing through Richie’s hair, and the sob he was fighting spills from his throat, harsh and ragged. Eddie’s hand cards through his hair a few times before settling on the back of his neck, fingers massaging gently. 

“It’s not your fa—“

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ say its not my fault,” Richie snaps. “I just told you I literally saw it happen, exactly the way it _did_ happen. I could have pulled you out of the way, I could have—” 

“Don’t _you_ fucking dare tell me how to feel about my own death, Richie,” Eddie interrupts, just as fiercely indignant as Richie. “Jesus Rich, you really think you could have stopped It? That asshole would’ve just killed me two feet to the left, stupid. Or killed you instead. It was _not_ your fucking fault, so shut the fuck up right now.” 

If his head wasn’t pounding and absolutely _begging_ for the sweet release of sleep, or a lobotomy, he might spare a minute to consider the enigma that is Eddie’s harsh words and his insanely gentle hands. The entire time he’s mouthing off, his fingers are moving sweetly on Richie’s skin, easing the sting and bringing Richie back down without him even realizing it’s happening. 

“He’s right, Richie,” Mike says. “I think Beverly’s vision was the true one. It trapping you in the deadlights gave him an opportunity. Eddie saved you from the deadlights, let his guard down, and It took his chance. You saw it happen because of your proximity to the event itself, It knew he would have the chance to kill Eddie the moment you were in It’s grasp.” 

Richie’s head spins, and based on the gaping mouths around the room, he’s not the only one feeling like he's just been hit over the head with a shovel. “Jesus— _what_? Fucking _what_?” 

“I told you it was complicated,” Mike shrugs. 

“I can’t wrap my head around some fucking— time paradox on top of killer alien clowns and turtle gods, Jesus Christ,” Richie says. 

“Yeah, let’s just— are you _sure_ about this Mike?” Bill asks. 

Mike nods. “I think so. My theory is that Maturin is trying to set things right, to undo the damage he allowed to happen when he disappeared. Eddie was the most recent person affected by It’s cruelty, and the closest to It’s lair when we killed It. It makes sense that he’d bring Eddie back."

It’s quiet again as they all take it in. Richie can practically hear everyone working it out in their heads. 

“You’re not going to like this next part,” Mike says after a few minutes of contemplative silence, then takes a deep breath. “I think we need to go to Derry.”

The room erupts. “What the _fuck_—“

“_Fuck no_.”

“No way.”

“Come _on_, Mike.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding—“

The specifics get lost in the din of their combined exclamations. Richie and Eddie are the loudest, predictably, but even Ben looks on the verge of popping a blood vessel or breaking into tears.

“I told you,” Mike says resignedly once they’ve all gotten it out. 

“Why?” Richie asks raggedly. 

“If we want answers, if we want to know for sure that Eddie is back for good, we need to find Maturin. Derry is where it all began, and ended. That’s where he’ll be.”

“What makes you think we’ll find him?” Ben asks. 

“I don’t know that we will. Not for sure. I’m hoping the Shokopiwah might have a ritual of sorts to summon him. I know it’s not much to go on, but it’s the only lead we have.” 

“And what do we do if we find him?” Richie asks, huffing out a humorless little laugh. “Just fucking roll up and ask, ‘what’s up, just curious, did you happen bring our friend back from the dead? Yeah? Cool, thanks, see ya byeee’?” 

“Essentially, yes.”

Richie stares, hoping Mike can read exactly what he thinks of that in his expression. He thinks he must, because Mike sighs.

“Richie, this is the only way to be sure.”

“Look, Eddie’s _here_!” Richie explodes, reaching over to squish Eddie’s cheeks for emphasis; Eddie slaps him away. “He’s here, and he has been for a full day now, and his battle wound is practically healed— I vote we don’t look a gift horse in its cosmic, wrinkled turtly mouth, eh?”

“Eddie should decide,” Bill says. He holds his hands up when Richie rounds on him. “It’s h-his life, Richie. It should be his call.” 

“And what if Mr. Franklin turns out to be an asshole and takes it back? What if setting foot in that shit sucking, ass backwards place undoes whatever magic brought him back?” Richie demands, bordering on hysterical at this point. “Not to _mention_ the risk of triggering our collective PTSD. We’ve moved on, we should stay as fucking far away as humanly possible from that travesty of a town.”

“I don’t want to go back either, Richie,” Mike says gently. Richie feels a pang of guilt amongst the fear and anger thrumming under his skin, remembering just how long Mike stayed in that hellhole, how much harder it must be for him to face going back, even temporarily. “But I think it’s our best chance to be sure, _really_ sure.”

Richie lets out a choked, frustrated sound and looks at Eddie. He’s staring hard at his clasped hands, wrinkle between his eyebrows that Richie perpetually wants to soothe with his thumb, or his lips.

“Eddie. Whatever you decide, we’re with you,” Ben says quietly. The others nod, assenting immediately, those who can reach bumping Eddie’s shoulder, his knee. Eddie frowns harder if possible and looks up at Richie, question clear in his deep brown eyes, and its no question at all.

“Of course I’ll go,” Richie tells him, unfortunately meaning every word. “I’ll kill a fucking turtle if I have to, whatever. No problem. We got history, anyway.”

A tiny smile creeps onto Eddie’s face, settling warm in Richie’s chest. Everyone watches Eddie expectantly. Eventually he looks away from Richie, blowing a heavy breath out of his mouth.

Eddie grimaces and says, “I need to drink on it.”

* * *

Three hours later finds the six of them absolutely trashed. Ben and Bev are draped over each other on the sofa, giggling at some inside joke. Mike is upside down on the armchair, tracing invisible patterns in Richie’s coffee table with a dazed look in his eye. Bill is facedown on the carpet, doing his best Henry Bowers impression for Richie and Eddie’s entertainment.

And speaking of Eddie, fucking Eddie, irritating, obnoxious, gorgeous Eddie— he’s also on the floor, head in Richie’s lap like it’s nothing, and it _is_ nothing, he tells himself for the tenth time in as many minutes since Eddie made himself at home there. They used to do this all the fucking time. A twenty-seven year gap in his memories could never really scrub the warm feeling of this, of being the center of Eddie's attention, of being the one he chose to willingly touch, to willingly share space and breath with. It stuck with him, a phantom ache he never understood until the moment he saw him standing by that fish tank, until he remembered just how painfully in love he was, past and present tense, until Eddie threaded himself back into Richie’s heart like he never left. It’s just as intoxicating as it was when he was twelve, and sixteen, and eighteen, and all the years in between and after.

He slumps down, head thunking backwards into the wall, barely listening to Bill anymore. Eddie’s still shaking with laughter, and it vibrates against Richie’s leg, buzzing all the way to his fingertips. His hand touches the top of Eddie’s head completely of it’s own volition. It’s only natural that his fingers should sink into his hair, and he might as well detangle it for him. It’s so soft between his fingers. He’s definitely a shampoo _and_ conditioner kinda guy, instead of the three-in-one bullshit he just knows Bill probably uses.

“Hey,” Richie says loudly. Bill slowly rolls over to face them; Eddie’s head lolls so he can look up at Richie’s chin. Richie grins to himself. “D’you use… three-in-one shampoo.” 

“Who are you talking to Richie?” Mike says slowly, voice like syrup.

“All you fucks,” Richie says, laughing to himself. Eddie starts too, and Richie’s leg is falling asleep but he doesn’t give a shit. "'Cept Bev." 

“No fucking way,” Eddie says. “But I bet Bill does.”  
  
“What?” Bill squawks. “Why the— f-fuck you,” he slurs.

“You’re not denying it.”  
  
“I _don’t_,” Bill says emphatically.

“Yeah, you totally fucking do.”

“Ben uses it!” Bev singsongs from the couch, pushing away Ben’s hand when he tries to cover her mouth. 

“Benjamin! No!” Richie cries. He slurs, “I had such high hopes for you, with your nice-nicely trimmed beard, an-and your sculpted physique!”

Bev giggles so hard she can’t talk for a full thirty seconds, all the while Ben blushes adorably and tries to silence her. “He— he won’t let me buy anything else! It’s disgusting!”  
  
“It’s _efficient_!” Ben argues. “It’s efficient! And it—it’s all the same anyway!”

“No it’s not!” Eddie yells, because of course he does. He hiccups, and moves to sit up but quickly stops when he remembers Richie’s hand in his hair. “It’s _not_ the same, dude, you’re stripping your hair of it’s— oils, and shit, and your skin’s probably _so_ fucking dry, man. You are _forty_, at least tell me you fucking moisturize.”

The room descends into a chaotic discussion that Richie, unusually, doesn’t partake in. He just watches and listens, alcohol making his blood sing, hazyand light, Eddie and the others leaving him feeling warm and content for the first time in months.

Eventually people start peeling themselves off of Richie’s floor and furniture and traipse off to bed. Mike goes home with Bill, taking him up on the available bedroom he’d offered to everyone else. Eddie berates them to call an Uber, blathering on about percentages and jail time, and they let him do it despite having called one ten minutes before he started his unprompted lecture. Ben half carries Bev to bed, taking the water and aspirin Richie offers gratefully.

Mike and Bill climb into their Uber ten minutes later. Richie watches until he sees them safely pull away, and shuts and locks the door. When he turns around Eddie is right there, plastered to Richie’s left side.

“‘M tired,” he mutters thickly.

“You’re drunk,” Richie replies. “_I’m_ drunk. We’re all fucking _drunk_. I already hate tomorrow.” 

“Me too. Fuck t’morrow.”

Richie snorts. “Come on.”  
  
He pulls Eddie with him upstairs to his room, pushes him in the general direction of his bathroom. Richie digs out some random articles of clothing that should function well enough as pajamas, tossing what he finds for Eddie in the bathroom, where he’s predictably fussing.

“Your mirror has so many water spots, ’s disgusting,” Eddie calls halfheartedly.

“Your mom’s disgusting,” Richie retorts just as weakly. He shrugs on a fresh t-shirt and plaid bottoms and falls into bed, sighing dreamily.

“Fuck, that’s that Tempur Pedic shit,” he mumbles. “That’s that _good_ shit.” He rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillows.

He feels a dip in the mattress, and then Eddie taps his shoulder. “Drink some water.”  
  
“Ugh. ’M good here.”  
  
“Richie, I don’t wanna hear you bitch tomorrow. Drink it.”  
  
“What the fuck do you care if I have a hangover tomorrow?”

“I just fucking told you, I don’t wanna hear the whining.”  
  
“Oh my god, fine _mom_, fucking christ.”  
  
Richie sits up enough to take the cup of water Eddie offers. Eddie drinks his own cup as he clumsily adjusts the covers around himself, triumphant little smirk on his face.

“You’re so cute when you’re bossy,” Richie says, and maybe he blushes because he means it, and maybe he’s just drunk enough that he can let himself believe that Eddie is blushing too.

“Shuddup. Gimme that, you’re gonna spill it in the bed.”  
  
Eddie snatches up the empty glass and sets both carefully on the nightstand. Richie takes off his glasses; Eddie turns off the lamp. They both wiggle down into comfortable positions, and it’s only as Richie is starting to drift off that it hits him.

“Shit,” he gasps. He sits upright and feels Eddie do the same.  
  
“What? Y'okay?” Eddie asks sluggishly. There’s a click and then soft light illuminates the room again.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t realize— I’ll uh, I’ll take the couch. You need rest, you should take the bed.”  
  
Eddie blinks blearily at him. “What?”

Richie crawls out of the bed, head swimming as the room spins with his jerky movements. When he feels a little more stable he starts gathering pillows. “I didn’t mean to like—" he gestures vaguely to the bed at large, "—make it weird or whatever, fuck. Sorry.”  
  
“Richie, I literally woke up with your hair in my mouth this morning,” Eddie deadpans. “Get back in bed.”

“No, Eds, you should—“  
  
“Richie I swear to god, get in the fucking bed. I need to be unconscious, like, yesterday, and if you make me get out of this bed to fight you about it I swear—”

_"Okay,_ fuck, reign it in smalls."

Eddie turns the full force of his glare on Richie, and slowly Richie relents. He puts the pillows back carefully, waiting for Eddie to take it back, to say this is weird, to tell him to fuck off. Eddie just watches him with a familiar blend of irritation and fondness, and only relaxes when Richie is back on his side of the bed and tucked under the covers. 

The light goes out again. Eddie sighs and sniffs as he gets comfortable, shifting and tossing until he’s nearly touching Richie. The inch of space between their arms practically crackles, and they've been touching all night but Richie's skin still sparks with the proximity. When Richie shuffles over to close the gap, Eddie lets out a relieved little sigh that makes Richie’s heart race.

“Richie.”  
  
“Yeah?”

“Don’t get up in the middle of the night.”

“Like… even to piss?”

“No, asshole, I mean… don’t go sleep on the couch.” 

Eddie’s hand creeps to the left, and his pinky interlocks with Richie’s. He was on the brink of a coma two minutes ago, but now he’s suddenly wide fucking awake.

“Okay,” Richie whispers. “Don’t get abducted by a giant turtle in the middle of the night.”  
  
He can’t see him, but he knows Eddie is rolling his eyes. “Goodnight Trashmouth.”  
  
“Night, Spaghetti.”

After awhile, his heart finally decides he’s not _actually_ in imminent physical danger and chills the fuck out, and just as he’s drifting off at last, Eddie’s hand slips into his like it’s nothing new, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me reading my outline: oh, i wanted to include a time paradox! good thing i remembered!
> 
> this is a joke i did NOT plan for this hfjshg, not entirely sure why i didn't just make eddie not die in the first place like every normal fix it writer out there because jesus this is getting out of hand my friends. 
> 
> just need to reiterate again the disclaimer that i have not read IT, nor the dark tower, in which i think maturin is more prevalent? idk, all my information here came from stephen king wiki and shit i made up so like im sure this is extremely incorrect, but also stephen king killed eddie in the first place so he can eat my entire ass. kudos to those that guessed i'd use this as a plot device!
> 
> anyway i love y'all, remember when i said this would only be 4 chapters. promise for more one on one reddie interactions next time <3


	6. Chapter 6

_Eddie is one of those people who thought extensively about ways he could die when he was alive. Car accident, plane crash, cancer, pneumonia, murder, drowning... he knew the statistics of them all. But he never gave much thought to after. For example, he never imagined he’d be here, trailing around after his snot nosed former ghost-self that he’s really starting to fucking despise. A facet of this new life, if you can call it that, that a therapist would have a fucking field day with._

_They’ve been walking for hours, or maybe days. Months, years, Eddie really has no idea. He doesn’t sleep here, doesn’t eat, has absolutely no way to gauge the passage of time. There’s still nothing to see, apart from those flickering lights that pass over them at random, and an occasional shadow that he’s inferred is the big boss around here. He’s learned by now not to bother trying to flag him/her/them/it down to demand answers._

_The only thing that ever changes is the gaping hole in his chest. When they stop, seemingly for no reason considering they don’t need rest, he glances down and sees its no longer bleeding. A little prodding through the torn fabric, and he can see it’s in the first stages of healing. His skin has started to stitch together. It’s ugly, and raw, but it’s a change._

_“Hey,” he calls when he notices. The dark head he’s blindly followed for an eon now turns to face him and raises an eyebrow. He gestures to the wound. “What does this mean?”_

_“What do you think it means, dipshit?” _

_And another thing: when the giant shadow boss isn’t around, his mini-me stops being a zombied weirdo and turns back into a little shithead that he really can’t fucking stand. He really can’t fathom how any of the Losers ever put up with him at this age, even Richie._

_“Alright you little asshole,” Eddie snaps, getting into his face and hovering over him as menacingly as he can manage. “Enough of the fucking attitude, alright? Clearly you know more than me in this shitty dump of an afterlife, or wherever the fuck we are, alright? You win, you’re smarter, whatever! So when I ask a question, you can just answer it without the fucking snark. Capiche?”_

_“Or what?” Young Eddie says with a smirk._

_“Or— I’ll— fuck, I can’t stand you,” Eddie bursts. “Jesus, this would’ve been easier with goddamn Richie leading me around, and that’s saying something.”_

_Young Eddie considers for a second. “That can be arranged.”_

_“What—“_

_He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking at a fourteen year old Richie, complete with coke bottle glasses and his dark flop of curls._

_“Jesus Eds,” Richie says, and Eddie almost collapses hearing that voice again. “_ ** _That’s_ ** _ how you die? That’s fucked up. I always thought it’d be the asthma, even though that wasn’t even real. Like, you’d definitely find a way to die from fake asthma, or from like, E. coli or some shit.” _  
  
_“I take it back,” Eddie says, backing away. Richie follows him, grinning, and it’s like he can suddenly see everything he forgot. Every memory of Derry he’d lost was inextricably bound to this gangly shithead in front of him, and the barrage of memories hit harder than when he saw the real Richie again twenty-seven years older. “No, bring the other one back.”_  
  
_Richie shrugs. “Too late, Spaghetti Head. Hey, is that my jacket?”_

_Eddie glances down to the jacket he’s still carrying with him like a fucking security blanket. “How do you know it’s yours?”_

_“Man, you really had it bad for me, huh?” Richie says instead of answering the question, and Eddie’s insides turn to ice. “You were in lurrrve with me, weren’t you?” _

_ “Shut up! I was not,” Eddie snaps like he's fucking twelve, cheeks heating up and giving him away instantly. He drops the jacket like it proves anything, and Richie just keeps snickering to himself._

_“You know I’m a fiction of your imagination, right? Like, I know everything in that precious little head of yours. You can’t lie to me, Eds.”_

_Eddie swallows. Richie isn’t taunting him, there’s nothing malicious in his countenance or his voice. He hates himself for feeling embarrassed about what he says next, but he has to ask. He has to know._

_“So you don’t… he doesn’t know, does he?” Eddie hedges._

_“Again, I’m an extension of _ ** _you_ ** _, Eddie,” Richie tells him. “I only know what you know. And maybe a little about where we are, but that’s only because of the big guy’s influence.”_

_“Who is he?” Eddie asks desperately, hoping against hope that now he’ll get some answers. _

_Richie laughs and makes an obnoxious foghorn sound. “ERHHH. Nope, we gotta move on if you wanna see me again.” _   
  
_ “See you again? What are you talking about?”_

_Richie sighs heavily. “Come on Spaghetti Head. And don’t forget that, it’s important,” he adds, pointing to the jacket._

_Eddie scoops it up and hastens to follow Richie, who talks at length the entire time they walk. It’s oddly similar to Eddie’s own internal monologue at the moment, full of expletives and self deprecation, and a chill goes through him. This is all so goddamn bizarre. _

_They stop again after a while. Richie, miraculously, stops talking. When Eddie catches up to him he points, and off in the distance Eddie sees a gauzy looking film, a barrier that definitely wasn’t there before. He moves towards it in a daze, inexplicably drawn to it. He feels like sleeping beauty approaching the spindle, hand outstretched, powerless to stop himself from reaching for it. It’s soft to the touch, and translucent. Whatever it is he’s seeing through it is just more darkness; he focuses, and sees streetlights, a car, trees. And then, clear as day, he sees a tall lanky figure that he’d recognize anywhere._

_“Richie,” he says, whisper soft. Richie is a ways away, talking to another person shaped blur he vaguely recognizes, but he can't make them out. Richie stands out in comparison, clear and bright and blazing._

_He pushes at whatever it is that separates them, but nothing happens. Richie and the other person keep talking. One opens the car door, Eddie can’t tell who. He’s too busy screaming Richie’s name, too busy tearing at the fabric of space, trying anything to get through. And then, suddenly, just as Richie turns towards him, something gives. That bright light overwhelms him again, and then he’s there, right fucking there. Richie sees him right away._

_He doesn’t get a chance to try and speak this time. He watches Richie race over to him, sees him stumble on the steps, but it’s too late. Eddie is spent, and he fades away before Richie can even reach a hand towards him._

* * *

Richie has exactly one nightmare, the same one he’s had since Derry, as predictable and frequent as the sunrise. It’s always the same: Eddie dying, Eddie bleeding, Eddie screaming his name, going cold in his arms, though it sometimes varies in its details to keep him on his toes.

Tonight, he watches Eddie die while someone holds him back, someone he can’t see but who pulls him away as Eddie screams for him, arms wrapped tight around Richie’s middle. He’s powerless, he can’t get to him, and the walls collapse in on him as he’s being dragged away while Eddie screams.

He wakes with a jerk just as the ceiling falls on him, and hears a grunt of pain behind him.

“Ow, assho’e,” Eddie mumbles against his neck. 

Eddie’s molded against his back, arm tight around Richie’s stomach. Richie loses all hope of his heart rate returning to normal when Eddie snuggles closer in his half conscious state.

“Alright?” Eddie asks, voice thick and heavy with sleep.

“Yeah,” Richie answers. Eddie is asleep before he can think of anything clever to say, snoring softly and tickling the hairs on his neck.

\- - -

Richie returns back to the world of the living a few hours later with a pounding headache, and a mouth so dry that his teeth are stuck to his cheek.

For a few minutes he just lays there, fighting the nausea and trying to remember where he is, and how he got to be so fucking old. It comes back to him with the force of a baseball bat to the face, and a quick survey of the room tells him he’s alone.

“Eds?” Richie calls, wincing as he sits up too fast for the delicate state his body is in. The other side of the bed is neatly made up, absolutely no evidence that there was a warm body curled against his back all night, and he promptly panics.

“Eddie?” he tries again as he scrambles out of bed, hastily shoving his glasses on his face.

He scans his bathroom, the hallway, and every room in between the linen closet and his dining room. Panic and nausea choke him the entire ten minutes it takes him to scour the house, and he’s just about to bang on the door of the spare room to enlist Ben and Bev’s help when he catches sight of Eddie on the back patio. He’s across the living room in two seconds flat, and rips open the sliding glass door to see Eddie hunched on his wicker armchair, wrapped in one of Richie’s sweatshirts.

“What the fuck, Kaspbrak?” he demands. “You can’t fucking disappear like that, Christ, I was about to—“  
  
“Sorry, Richie,” Eddie interrupts. His voice is small and pathetic, and Richie’s anger drains away instantly. He sits on the little glass table opposite Eddie and touches his forearms, just to make sure he’s real. “I had a— I woke up, and couldn’t go back to sleep. Didn’t wanna bother you.” 

“You’re allowed to bother me, Eds, okay? All you fucking _do_ is bother me.”

“Not with this,” Eddie says heavily. He pulls Richie’s cell phone out of his pocket and hands it to him. “I borrowed this.”  
  
“For what?”

Eddie sucks in a breath. “I called Myra,” he tells him. Richie swallows with a click, and Eddie rubs his hand over his eyes. “It was um. Loud. Definitely would have woken you up if I’d stayed inside.”  
  
“Shit Eddie,” Richie breathes. He still has one hand on Eddie’s arm, and he squeezes it. “Are you okay? What did you tell her?”

“I told her— “ he laughs hollowly. “Shit, I told her that I was in a bad accident, and that I was in a coma. I blamed it on fucking _paperwork_ Richie, said the doctors mixed up my documents with another guy in a coma that died. And that I’d been recovering, and unable to speak or advocate for myself and get it cleared up until now."   
  
“Jesus _Christ_, Eddie,” Richie swears. “Does she know we were with you? She’s gonna hunt us down, or have us arrested.”

“No, she has no idea about you,” Eddie says. “And I told her the hospital shut down, so my records are gone.”

“Holy _shit_ Eds.”  
  
Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, it was either that or telling her I’d been kidnapped by the Canadian mafia. This was at least closer to the truth.”  
  
“Fuck. And she _bought_ _it_?”

“Amazingly, yeah,” Eddie says. His mouth twists, face shuttering into some expression Richie can’t read. “I don’t think she actually believes it, not for a second, but she’s willing to pretend she does to keep me away. She’s uh. Already remarried.”

Richie doesn’t know what to say to that. Some noise escapes his throat, a quasi sympathetic groan that kind of sounds like a dying cat. Eddie squints at him. 

“The fuck was that?”  
  
“I don’t know, I’m extremely uncomfortable,” Richie tells him. He realizes he’s still touching Eddie, which— inappropriate timing, probably. He leans back and toys with the hem of his tee instead. “And I only have about five percent sincerity in me before I start making ‘While You Were Sleeping’ jokes to cope, so. Eds, I’m sorry.”  
  
“No, Rich, don’t,” Eddie says. “I mean it. You probably picked it up yesterday but we weren’t exactly— I didn’t love her. Not really. I don’t think she ever loved me either, it was— a fucked up marriage of convenience, more than anything. I’m relieved, honestly.”

“Well. That’s good, then, right?” Richie asks. Eddie does a weird half shrug, half nod. “I mean, kind of an overdramatic way to get out of a marriage, faking a coma and all, but hey. It’s effective.”  
  
“Asshole,” Eddie says with a smile. The sleeves of Richie’s sweatshirt extend well past his hands, and his hair is sticking up in at least three different places. Richie really fucking wants to kiss him.

He clears his throat. “So uh, what are you gonna do like. Legally speaking. Like, there’s a death certificate with your name on it out there.”  
  
He absolutely hates saying the words out loud. Flashes of Eddie’s funeral play like a fucked up montage film behind his eyelids when he blinks. Eddie sighs and leans his head against the back of the chair.

“Well, lucky for me, she’s married to a fucking lawyer now,” Eddie says. “She thinks he can fix it somehow, he knows some guys, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t even give a shit.”

There’s something about the apathetic way he says it that has Richie on edge. “What does that mean? You need to be legally like, alive, Eds. You need a social security number and shit.”

“Only if I’m sticking around.”

Richie’s stomach drops, nausea rolling back in like a tidal wave. “What are you talking about? Do you— do you know something I don’t? If you’re about to disappear on me again and you knew about it, I’ll fucking lose it, Eddie, I will I swear—“  
  
“No, Jesus Rich, calm down,” Eddie assures him. “I just. This is too good to be true, okay. There’s gotta be some kind of catch.”

Richie presses his lips together, at a loss for words. Eddie’s just spoken his worst fear out loud.

“The _catch_,” Richie says, voice harsh and jagged. “Was the five of us thinking you were dead. It was us attending your goddamn funeral, and thinking about you every fucking second, and waking up in a cold sweat every night dreaming about it—”

He cuts himself off before he can say anything more incriminating. Eddie looks at him for a long time in a way that makes Richie feel raw, split open, the parts of himself he’s never let Eddie see exposed and broken. He lets him look, hoping Eddie can read it all, hoping he doesn’t get spooked and leave, willingly or not. 

After awhile Eddie blinks and looks away. Richie catalogues the sounds of life around him to keep himself from falling any deeper into a panic attack. Early morning traffic. A dog barking in the distance. Birds chirping. His neighbors TV. Eddie’s quiet breathing. Eddie has a hard, determined look on his face when he looks back at Richie.

“Richie, if it does happen, if I can’t stay…” Richie opens his mouth, but Eddie pushes ahead before he can start. “Shut _up_, asshole. If it does, there’s two things I need you to know. One, none of this was your fucking fault. Period. Okay?” 

And he doesn’t actually believe it, of course, but he nods anyway, anything to get rid of the pained look in Eddie's eyes.

“Good.” Eddie takes a deep breath. “And two, there’s something I need to tell you—“  
  
They both jump when the sliding glass door opens with a muted bang. Ben is standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee and grinning. For a few minutes Richie had actually forgotten he was in his house.

“Morning,” Ben greets cheerfully. “Uh, Bev ordered something for breakfast, should be here in a bit. Want some coffee?”

Eddie looks ready to choke Ben with the sleeves of his too long hoodie, so Richie intervenes before Eddie can jump him. “Yeah, thanks gorgeous. Be in soon.” 

Ben nods and disappears back in the house.

“‘Gorgeous’,” Eddie repeats to himself dryly. “You can’t help yourself, can you.”

The tension seems to have broken, but Eddie is still scowling furiously at his clasped hands. “Aw Eddie baby, you know I only have eyes for you.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, Richie,” Eddie snaps angrily. “Five percent sincerity piece of shit.” He’s up and through the back door before Richie can even blink.

Breakfast is a tense affair. Eddie hasn’t given an answer about Derry, and Richie doesn’t want to push, nor do Ben and Bev it seems. Beverly works hard to keep conversation light, with lots of ribbing between her and Richie to keep everyone, read: Eddie, from blowing up or crumbling to pieces. Mike sends a text when they’re cleaning up to ask if Eddie’s said anything. He responds _‘not yet’,_ surreptitiously glancing over to see Eddie scrubbing a coffee mug with way more force than warranted.

His phone pings with another message from Mike before he can tease Eddie about his overly forceful cleaning. ‘_Did you know Bill and his wife separated?_’

“Holy shit,” Richie mumbles before he can stop himself. Thankfully, no one looks his way, and he replies right away.

‘_no fucking way. when??? mutual or on bad terms?_’

‘_Mutual. Right after Derry. He seems happy about it._’

And Richie wants to get deeper into it, but Eddie suddenly throws down the sponge he was using and stomps upstairs like a fucking five year old. Richie watches him go, ignoring the look from Beverly he can feel burning into his profile.

“What did you do?” she asks with a sigh when they hear Richie’s bedroom door slam shut.

“I didn’t do anything! Ben’s the one that pissed him off!”  
  
“Me?” Ben squeaks. “What did I do?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Richie admits, throwing his hands up. “He was about to tell me something, like tell with a capital T, and you interrupted, and then he got all— _Eddie_ on me.”

“Well you need to talk to him,” Bev says firmly, crossing her arms. “And if he calms down, we should get him out of the house. Out of his own head.”

“Good idea,” Ben agrees. Richie makes a face. Disgusting.  
  
“Okay, _not_ enjoying this double teaming shit just because you two are boning, by the way,” Richie says as he heads to the stairs. Bev just smirks and swats him out of the room.

A minute later, he knocks softly on his door. Eddie doesn’t answer; Richie opens it slowly in case Eddie is naked in there, which is so not a mental image he needs right now.

It’s nearly as bad. Eddie is in a pair of Richie’s boxers, and only his boxers, huffily making up Richie’s side of the bed while the shower in Richie’s bathroom heats up.

“Eds?” 

“What, Richie.” Eddie’s voice is tight and clipped. Richie actively _doesn’t_ watch the muscles in his back contract when Eddie fluffs the pillows. He doesn't.

“Okay, never mind,” Richie says, backing away. Eddie sighs and stops obsessively smoothing the wrinkles out of Richie’s comforter. 

“Come back,” Eddie tells him. Richie does, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. 

“Um, I’m sorry, Eds,” he says. 

“What for?” 

Richie shrugs. “Honestly I don’t really know, but you’re acting all pissy, and I’m guessing it has to do with your wife—“

“Ex-wife.”

“— and the existential dread of being a living ghost, and the thought of going back to fucking _Derry_, and just. You know.” He gestures flippantly at nothing in particular. “Coming back from the dead, thing. That’s a lot of stress, on top of me being an asshole.” 

Eddie manages to glare for a full thirty seconds before he deflates and collapses onto the bed he just meticulously made up. “You being an asshole is the least of my worries. I can handle you being an asshole. You’re always an asshole.”

“Uh, okay, respectfully, I have to disagree,” Richie argues. “I let you drool all over me last night, and I _did_ give you five full percent sincerity earlier.”

Eddie closes his eyes and grins. Richie takes it as a good sign and steps fully into the room. “I know you’re freaking out, but you shouldn’t waste water about it, jeez.” Eddie doesn’t reply as he takes a detour into his bathroom to shut off the shower. He approaches the bed when he’s done, feeling a little more confident that Eddie isn’t gonna start swinging at him.

Richie flops down next to him, taking advantage of Eddie’s shirtlessness to check out his wound. The skin is a healthy looking pink today, and Richie would be wigged out about how suspiciously quickly it’s healing if it weren’t for the whole turtle god of it all. 

They’re laying horizontal, legs dangling off the edge with their heads meeting in the middle of the bed. If Richie were to twist to the left, he’d be close enough to kiss the scar on Eddie’s cheek. 

“You also seemed kind of pissed that Ben interrupted you,” Richie says hesitantly. “And maybe just a _little_ jealous. But that’s none of my business.”

“I wasn’t jealous, you cocky piece of shit,” Eddie says defensively. “I _do_ think it’s a little inappropriate to be fucking flirting with a friend, a friend that's dating one of your _other_ friends. But I don’t know, that’s just me.”

“So. You were jealous,” Richie concludes. Eddie slaps him right in the face, and Richie catches his hand before he can retract it. Eddie's sitting up and climbing on top of him faster than Richie can process. He tries to slap him again, but Richie has his hands held fast at his sides. Eddie fights it, but Richie has a tight grip on his wrists.

“It’s okay, Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie cries as they struggle. “I know the effect I have on people, you’re not the first to fall under my spell! You should see what some of my fans do just to get five seconds of my attention.”

“God I hate you,” Eddie huffs. His face is red, though Richie can’t tell if it’s from exertion or embarrassment. He gets a hand free finally and swats, only managing to dislodge Richie’s glasses a little. Richie grabs his hand again, and the motion pulls him down flush against Richie’s chest, face inches from his. He’s suddenly acutely aware of how little clothing Eddie is wearing, a fact his dick takes an unfortunate interest in. 

“This feels familiar,” Richie breathes. Eddie squints at him, and he grins. “Yeah, your mom and I tried this position once—“  
  
Eddie manages to wrangle a hand free at that and slap him square across the face. Richie is laughing too hard to even feel it, and Eddie throws in another punch to his chest as he falls back onto the bed. They catch their breath, Richie still laughing to himself, and when he looks over he sees Eddie has closed his eyes again and has a private little smile on his face. 

“So uh, Bev thought we should do something today,” he hedges once he calms down. Eddie doesn’t say anything. “But I mean, we could just stay here, if you want,” Richie amends. “I mean it. Ben and Bev can fuck off somewhere together and we’ll just stay here. Or, I could go, and you could stay, and—“

“Richie.”

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Jesus, fine. Just trying to be nice, since you think I’m such a huge asshole.”

“I know, and you _are_, but listen to me, okay? I spent months alone in that—_place_, so I really just. I don’t want—to be alone, alright, so don’t feel like you need to give me space, or whatever. I don’t want space, not right now.”

“Okay, yeah. Anything you want Eds,” Richie agrees earnestly. 

“And that’s another thing,” Eddie snaps, pushing up on his elbow to glare down at Richie. “Don’t ‘anything you want’ me, like I’m fucking delicate.”

“But you _are_ delicate,” Richie says, grinning when Eddie practically snarls at him. 

“Richie, I swear to god—“

“Look, okay, you don’t want me to tiptoe, I got it,” Richie interrupts. “But did it ever occur to you that I _want_ to help you? I’m not doing this shit just to spare your feelings Eds, it’s because I fucking— care. About you. Dipshit.”

“I know you do,” Eddie says softly, and the gears in Richie’s brain grind to a screeching halt. It sounds like he knows more than Richie is frankly comfortable with. “And I know I’m being hypocritical, considering I’ve been hanging off your fucking side since I showed back up, it’s just. Everything’s so fucking overwhelming.”

“I know, Eds.” There’s a beat where Eddie just smiles down at him sheepishly, and he has a selfish moment where he imagines a future where they talk like this, right here, everyday. “You haven’t told me not to call you that since the restaurant, by the way.”

Eddie looks away shiftily. “Maybe I don’t mind it so much,” he mumbles. “It means you’re real. And still annoying as fuck.” 

Richie doesn’t really have anything to say to that. He smiles, and Eddie plunks back down next to him. Their shoulders press together, and they stare at the ceiling quietly. 

“Hey,” Richie says after a minute of comfortable silence. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell anyone what I’m about to say, alright?”

“Okay...”

“Bill separated from his wife. Like, as soon as we got back from Derry.”

“Really?” Eddie says, pushing up into this elbow again. “He didn’t tell you? And he and Mike are just over there, all alone?”

“Yep,” Richie says with a pop. 

“Wow,” Eddie says slowly. He lays back down and stares at the ceiling again. “I mean. That’s a thing, right? I wasn’t the only one who noticed, was I?” 

“It’s a thing,” Richie confirms. “As the token homo of the group, I say it’s a thing.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says vaguely, sounding far away. Richie glances over, but Eddie is frowning resolutely at the ceiling and ignores him. Richie wants to push, but they literally just had a whole conversation about Richie babying Eddie, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

“So. What do you wanna do today? The worlds your oyster and shit. Anything you want. Los Angeles has it all, baby.”

Eddie’s cheeks flush pink. “I think… I want to go to the aquarium.”  
  
“The aq— Eds, please tell me I heard you wrong,” Richie says. “The _aquarium_? Fucking _fish_? We can do anything, Eds!”  
  
“Yeah, I fucking heard you. New York has everything too you know, and I want to go to the fucking aquarium.”

Richie laughs, but Eddie is deadly serious when he glances over. “Alright. We’ll go. Anything for you, Spaghetti Head. But _not_ to one of those whale prison places, dude.” 

“No, fuck that. Fuck SeaWorld. I just want to see some like. Stingrays and shit.”

“Pretty sure that’s still kinda problematic, but okay you fucking freak.”

“You’re the freak,” Eddie mumbles.  
  
Without another word Eddie heaves himself up and heads for Richie’s bathroom, presumably to make himself right at home. Richie doesn’t stop smiling for at least an hour. 

* * *

_It becomes something of an obsession, but fuck off, who can blame him. He’s fucking dead, what else is he supposed to do? _

_After the last time, he’d come to on the other side of the curtain, but he could see still see Richie through it. He watched, helpless, as Richie swore and curled in on himself and sobbed, felt tears spring to his own eyes. He’d tried, he’d spent what felt like days trying to get through to him, but nothing worked._

_Eventually Richie had pulled himself up and dragged himself back into his house. Eddie followed. **How** he'd followed him he couldn't explain, but at the time he didn't care. He spent an incalculable amount of time watching Richie sleep, hugging Richie’s jacket to his chest. Richie’s young doppleganger that had brought him here was nowhere to be found, nor was his own teenage apparition, or anyone else for that matter._

_In the time that followed, he learned a few things. The curtain ran parallel to his world, to Richie, close enough that Eddie can almost always find him. He spends all his time just wandering along it, looking for glimpses of him, trying to push through. Sometimes it worked. He can’t pin down the exact movement, or timing, or alignment that makes it work, only that it feels accidental and surprises him every time. He sees Richie at Starbucks, and bars, and at home, but he can never stay longer than a minute or two. Never long enough for Richie to get to him, never long enough to figure out how to make his limbs or his vocal cords work._

_He can’t hear Richie from the other side of the veil, but he can hazard guesses at what he’s doing. He sometimes finds him sitting opposite a woman with a clipboard, tears in his eyes. He sees him hunched over a laptop, typing furiously, then repeating things back to himself. He sees him practice his routine in his living room, and wishes more than anything he could hear it. He sees him drink himself to sleep every night, and throughout it all, Eddie aches._

_One night he manages to push through the curtain and finds himself in Richie’s kitchen. Richie barely reacts to seeing him. He just blinks, and calmly sits down opposite him, staring at him for a long time. Then Richie starts talking, telling him he’s not real, that he’s gone, and Eddie wants to scream. He focuses, thinks of how badly he wants to talk to him, to touch him, convince him he’s really here, and finally he can feel something unlock in his throat. He takes in the bags under Richie’s eyes, the sallow tint of his cheeks, and inhales softly. _

_“You should get some sleep,” he says, and Richie’s face crumples. His voice is flat and toneless again, but it’s the best he can do._

_“What?” Richie gasps. “Eddie, talk to me— come on. Please.”_

_He uses every ounce of whatever it is that allows him to keep talking. “You have a show.”_

_“Yeah, yeah I— it’s my own stuff too, Eds. Like you told me.”_

_“I wish you could hear it.”_

_And then Richie’s hand reaches for him. He feels himself drifting, feels the familiar pull back through the curtain, and he fights it harder than he’s ever attempted before. He must dispel some celestial energy in the process, because the last thing he’s aware of is Richie’s fire alarm blaring, and then he’s gone, left to watch Richie scream and throw a plate at his wall, for him to crumple and spend the rest of the night on his kitchen floor._

* * *

The first time Richie had ever been to an aquarium, he’d gone with Eddie. They were thirteen, and snuck off together the summer before high school. Richie had stolen money from his mom’s wallet, and they’d ridden their bikes to the bus station, and he’d figured out the right bus to take and counted out the change. They’d giggled and acted out the entire hour and a half it took to get to the next town over, definitely pissing off the driver, giddy from the high of being unsupervised and independent. They spent the entire day there, from open to close, looping through the entire place at least four times over. Eddie had come up with a vulgar nickname for almost all the fish by the time they left, and for weeks after he would repeat one of the nicknames randomly, and Richie would laugh loudly, feeling a secret little thrill that he was the only one who got the joke. Eddie used the one dollar in his pocket to buy two oversized pencils in the gift shop. They were blue with little penguins on them, and Eddie gave one to Richie without a thought, avoiding eye contact as he handed it over. It was the first time Richie thought about what it would be like to kiss him. He dreamt of currents, of walls of blue water, and of Eddie, laughing and beaming at him for weeks.

\- - -

Two hours later, they manage to make it out of the house for the first time in two days. Bill and Mike pick the four of them up, and they all pile into Bill’s SUV and stop at a cafe near the aquarium for lunch. The others don’t rib Eddie nearly as much as he deserves for choosing this particular outing, but lunch is still the most fun he’s had since their dinner the first night in Derry, and even Eddie seems to be in better spirits by the end of it.

Ben handles getting their tickets when they arrive, and the rest of them crowd around the fountain outside. It has huge dolphins spitting into the water surrounding them, and smaller golden fish interspersed throughout. They toss coins and make wishes, and Eddie’s fingers linger on Richie’s a second too long when he takes the quarter he offers.

The six of them traipse inside, and immediately latch onto the giant blue whale hanging above them. Richie’s vaguely aware of a tour guide spouting off facts to the group of people clustered nearby, but mostly he’s watching Eddie, who’s stepped away from the group and is staring up at the whale with a haunted look in his eyes. It gives Richie the chills in the worst way. 

Eddie doesn’t move for a long time, doesn't even react when people bump into him, and Richie decides he needs to intervene. He stands next to Eddie and looks up with him, says, “You know it’s fake right? Moby Dick isn’t gonna dive down here and eat you.”  
  
“Moby Dick was a sperm whale,” Eddie says without looking away, completely indifferent to the conversation.

“I know. I just wanted to hear you say sperm.”

Eddie finally glances over, and looks just annoyed enough to say something bitchy in response when Bev appears between them and slings an around around their shoulders.  
  
“Where to first Eddie?” she asks. The others materialize around them as well, waiting on Eddie’s verdict.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eddie says. He looks back up at the whale reverently, and Bev shoots Richie a look.

“How about literally anywhere but staring at this fucking whale?” Richie suggests loudly. A mom nearby whips around to glare at him, scandalized, and pulls her kids away in a rush.

“Okay, l-let’s go,” Bill urges, pushing at Richie’s back. Mike grabs Eddie’s elbow gently and steers them towards the jellyfish exhibit straight ahead.

Considering it was his idea, Eddie is strangely subdued the entire three hours they spend there. Richie does his best to keep things light, to crack as many stupid jokes as he can, be as childish as he wants, but Eddie still only manages the briefest of smiles, even when Richie brings back some of Eddie’s crude nicknames. He perks up a little at the penguins, but as soon as they go through the tunnel with water all around and above them, he retreats back into himself, leaving Richie feeling anxious and on edge.

They spread out a bit as they explore. Bill and Mike seem engaged in some pretty intense conversation and sort of breeze through most of the displays, with Ben and Bev close behind them. Ben reads every single display in full like the nerd he is, and tells Bev the interesting parts. Eddie and Richie bring up the rear, and Eddie spends an inordinate amount of time just staring at the tanks vacantly.

They reach the final room, and Richie can't help but be impressed. It’s floor to ceiling glass, the biggest tank they’ve seen so far. It encompasses the entire room, casting them all in dark blue light, and Richie feels his jaw drop just a little as he takes it all in. He feels surrounded, enveloped by the life around him, and it’s both terrifying and strangely peaceful.

He checks on Eddie, hoping the wonderment of the room will snap him out of his funk, only to find that hollow expression again as Eddie stares through the glass.

“Eds?” Richie tries. Eddie doesn’t look away, barely even acknowledges that he hears Richie. “You good?”

“This is what it looked like,” Eddie says quietly. He swallows, and his eyes dart around wildly, watching a shark swim past before focusing on a stingray, a lionfish, a sea turtle.

“What what looked like?” 

“Where I was,” Eddie says, and Richie suppresses a shudder. “Not like… there wasn’t water, but it was dark like this, barely any light. And there was this fucking curtain that I could look through, and I would— I would always see you. And I would just watch you, fucking _endlessly_, because there was nothing else, no one. And I’d just stare through it, hoping I’d fall through, and then I would feel trapped when I finally managed to get through. Just like these fucking fish.”

“Eddie…” Richie breathes. Eddie’s eyes are a little watery, and he’s barely blinking. Richie’s instinct is to pull him out of it, but he doesn’t want to interrupt if it’s at all cathartic for him to get it out.

Eddie steps closer until he’s inches from the glass, and reaches a hand out to touch it, despite the many signs that say not to. Richie catches it before he makes contact, and again Eddie barely reacts, even when Richie laces their fingers together and lets their joined hands fall between them.

“Eddie,” Richie says. Eddie keeps staring into the water. “Eddie, you’re here now, okay? You’re not going back there.”

“You can’t promise that,” Eddie answers. His breath hitches. “You can’t, Richie.”

“No, I can't. But I already told you that I’d fight a fucking turtle to keep you, and I'll have you know, I won that fight thirty years ago.”

Eddie finally cracks, just a little. His lips turn up in an empty smile. Richie latches onto it, says, “Did you watch me like, on the toilet and shit Eds?”  
  
“Ew, for fuck’s sake Richie,” Eddie sighs, animating before his eyes. “_No_. I never saw that kinda thing, you freak. Just like. You working, or eating, or at bars. Things like that.”  
  
Fuck. “So you… saw me, uh.” _Drink myself to sleep. Scream myself hoarse. Lose my fucking mind._

“Yeah, Rich.” He’s not unkind about it, or smug, or pitying. He looks at Richie, and holds his gaze for a long moment before his eyes drop to their joined hands. “I saw. Didn’t know you gave such a shit.”

Richie smiles helplessly. “I give a lot of shits, believe it or not. About… some things. People.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Eddie agrees. He tugs Richie closer, and he swears his heart fucking stops. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay. Straight home, or you wanna grab some food first—“  
  
“No,” Eddie interrupts. “_Home_, home. Derry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hanbrough rights!!!
> 
> woof. not much plot in this chapter, just a filler full of pining and angst and fluff <3 next chapter might be a bit delayed bc work is killing meeee but you can always come chat with me on [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/) :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this chapter is the result of me realizing my own plothole too late (you'll see) and turned out to be the longest chapter of the fic so far. eventually we will get to derry i swear. 
> 
> also, i've made a [playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3qB2VOKoK65NFWCGH4XpFF?si=eiUWtSu5R_SQ7WC9p2PoGA) if that's your kinda thing. if it is, i'd probably recommend listening in order rather than shuffling. right now it's mostly angsty sad songs, but i'll be adding to it as the story progresses

Ben offers to cook dinner when they get back to Richie’s. This means making a detour to a Whole Foods for him to pick up some actual groceries, something Richie’s house hasn’t seen in months. Richie uses the trip to distract Eddie from his own internal angst by being as immature as humanly possible. It escalates from French bread sword fights to soup can bowling, and finally climaxes when he convinces Bev and Ben to push them around in the shopping cart. He’s just helped Eddie climb into his when they’re asked to leave by the manager. Ben somehow sweet talks him into letting them at least pay for the groceries on the way out while Bev, Richie, and Eddie giggle like fucking schoolgirls. Mike and Bill just shake their heads when they rejoin them outside the building with a security escort.

They make it back to Richie’s, and everyone busies themselves with calling their respective bosses and getting off work for the next week. Richie doesn’t have to do jack, because his next tour hasn’t been scheduled yet and he's hit a massive writing block anyway, so he sits on the floor with his laptop propped on the coffee table and looks up flights. 

“Uh, okay we have a problem,” Richie says to the room at large. Bev and Eddie look over from the couch, and Bill stops texting his manager. “So, remember how I told you you’d need a social security number and shit? Yeah, I was right. Turns out you can’t buy a plane ticket for a dead guy. Thanks Patriot Act.”

“Fuck,” Eddie swears angrily, dropping his head into his hands.

“Any chance you got those cooked up documents yet?”

“It’s been less than twelve hours, Rich, so I’m gonna go with no.”  
  
“What cooked up documents?” Bev asks.

“Uh, my ex’s new husband is a—“  
  
“Wait, your _what_?” Bev shrieks.

This leads to a fifteen minute long distraction in which Eddie has to explain his marital situation to the rest of the group. Ben finishes dinner during that time, and they gather around Richie’s table to eat while Eddie finishes answering the last of everyone’s questions. 

“Alright, anyone else have anything else wanna share? Any other marital drama on anyone’s mind?” Richie asks, passing the salad bowl to Ben and shooting a pointed look at Bill.

Bill looks shiftily at Mike and clears his throat. “Yeah, uh. Audra and I split.”

Richie lets Bev and Ben do most of the reacting to that one and tries to pretend to be surprised. He makes a face that’s probably a little exaggeratedly sympathetic, and when he catches Eddie smirking at him he ruins it even more by smiling back. Mike glares from across the table; thankfully Bill is distracted by Ben and Bev’s questioning and doesn't notice.

“Wow,” Ben says under his breath when Bill finishes. He scoops some potatoes onto his plate. “Lot of baggage at this table.”

Eddie snickers. “Yeah. Three divorces, three eternal bachelors. We broke like, every known statistic about marriage.”  
  
“Hey, I _could_ have gotten married. It’s not my fault I forgot I was gay for thirty years,” Richie says, lips quirked, waiting for the obvious jabs.

“_Forgot_," Eddie scoffs disbelievingly, right on cue while the others chuckle. "Well if we're using that excuse, so did I, and _I_ still managed to get married."

Eddie takes a bite of green beans, chewing calmly and still looking at his plate, oblivious to the hush that’s fallen over the table. He only looks up when Richie’s hand falls heavily onto the wood with a loud clanking sound. His eyes scan the table questioningly, finding everyone’s gaze directed at him.

“What?”

“Eddie, did you say…” Bev starts hesitantly, and Richie is so fucking thankful she apparently still possesses the capacity for speech. “Do you mean... you forgot you were…?”

Richie sees the moment Eddie understands. He pales, and makes quick eye contact with Richie, who has no fucking clue what his face is doing. Eddie clears his throat and puts his silverware down. 

“Uh, fuck. Yeah… weirdest fucking way to come out _ever_, but yeah.” He bites his lip, takes a breath. “I’m gay. I think. Like, pretty sure… I’ve had a lot on my mind and shit, what with the whole… dying thing. But yeah, there it is. And I’ve also— I’ve never said that out loud, so I’m feeling _super_ fucking weird right now.”

Bev leans over from Eddie’s other side and hugs him, kisses his cheek. “That’s great, Eddie.”

“Happy for you, Eddie,” Mike says warmly.

Bill and Ben say something too, but Richie can’t hear them over the loud circus music suddenly blaring in his head. He’s aware of everyone turning to him expectantly, and so he does what he does best and deflects the shit out of it. 

“Way to blow up my fucking spot man,” he says, and its a little hoarse but no one seems to notice. They’re either rolling their eyes or smiling awkwardly while Eddie glares.

“Asshole,” Eddie mutters irritably. He stabs at a piece of chicken a couple times before managing to spear it and chews angrily when he finally gets it to his mouth. It would be cute if Richie’s heart wasn’t racing fast enough to make him lightheaded.

Richie lasts through one subject change before he drops his fork and stands. He blurts, “I need um. Some air. Been awhile since I’ve had three full meals in a day, and shit, feeling like I might hurl. So I'm just gonna...”

He doesn’t wait for anyone to respond. He hightails it to the back porch, and leans heavily against the sliding glass door when it shuts behind him. It only occurs to him after a full minute of trying to regulate his breathing that everyone can see him, and he pushes himself off to lean forward against the railing. He can’t keep up with the thoughts pinging around in his head, can’t decide how he feels. He really needs to reassess his own fucking gaydar, because how the fuck did he miss this? He’s been so attuned to Eddie’s every idiosyncrasy, every tic, every quirk, and yet he missed _this_? And maybe that’s just because of how deep into his own closet he was, and how deeply intertwined Eddie was with his secret. Being gay and being in love with Eddie became interchangeable, molded together into the same secret that he had to guard with his life. Maybe if he could’ve pulled his head out, he would’ve seen this coming. His heart aches when he thinks of how alone the two of them were all that time, and his hands clench around the railing.

“Richie, you okay?”

He turns, and is a little surprised to see who’s followed him this time. Ben steps forward, leans his hip against the railing to look at Richie.

“Peachy. Why do you ask?”

“Richie.”

Ben fixes him with a stern yet overwhelmingly kind look, and he kind of wants to cry. He sort of does; Ben’s face starts to blur, and he blinks the tears back, sniffling and turning away.  
  
“Richie, hey. Come on, talk to me.”  
  
“Look, man, I appreciate it, but I’m fine. I’m not the one that’s back from the dead, and ending a marriage and accidentally coming out to all my friends.” He swipes a hand under his eyes, but it’s not nearly as sneaky as he hoped because Ben just shuffles closer.

“Richie, listen. I don’t want to overstep, but I think I know you pretty well. And I can recognize myself in you a little. A _lot, _actually.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” Richie asks, but he knows.

“I’m _saying_, we should probably start our own sub-committee within the Losers. The ‘secretly in love with childhood best friend’ committee.”  
  
Richie laughs hollowly, can’t help blushing a little, because of _course_ Ben clocked him. “That’s a little wordy. Maybe just the 'fucking pathetic' committee. Can two people technically even _be_ a committee?”

Ben smiles, warm and gentle, and despite everything Richie feels incredibly fucking lucky to call him a friend. “So I’m right?”  
  
Richie sighs. “Yeah, fuck me, you are. Does everyone know?”

“Probably,” Ben admits.

“Jesus. Have to respect the honesty, I guess.”  
  
“I mean, everyone but Eddie,” Ben clarifies. “Otherwise I don’t think we’d be having this conversation right now.”

There’s a pause where they both just look off in the distance. Richie is out of deflections, and there’s no point trying to backtrack, and he is genuinely in fucking need of some advice.

“Did you remember her? After Derry, I mean.”

Okay, it’s a slight deflection, but he really wants to know. He wonders if Ben felt that same phantom ache for twenty-seven years, if he felt incomplete the way Richie did, knowing something was missing but not able to put a name to what it was.

“Sort of,” Ben says. He turns so that his back is against the railing, and looks down at his feet. “I knew there was _someone_. Someone that was keeping me from ever finding anything serious with anyone else. I always just assumed I’d blocked it out because it was too painful, until I saw her again, and then I knew right away that it was her.”

“Gag,” Richie says, but its halfhearted. Ben smiles at him, clearly seeing right through his shit. “I— same. I saw Eddie at Jade and it was like being slapped in the fucking face with it. Like, complete with the awkward teenage boner and everything.”

“I hear that,” Ben agrees with a chuckle. "I thought I was going to pass out." 

They fall quiet for a minute, and then Ben blows a sharp breath out of his mouth.

“Are you going to tell him?” Ben asks.

“Are you insane?” Richie counters. Ben furrows his eyebrows, and Richie laughs. “No, no fucking way. He just told us he was gay like, six minutes ago. Telling him would be fucking suicide.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Ben. Benjamin. Please be serious. If he felt even remotely the same way, I feel like dying and coming back to life would be a pretty fucking good motivator for a confession, don’t you?”  
  
“_You_ also didn’t tell him when he came back. Just because he hasn’t told you doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the same.”  
  
“Oh Ben. It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” Richie says.

“Come _on_, Richie. Why do you think you’re the only one who saw him? He only showed himself to you, remember?”  
  
“Because I was out of my goddamn mind! My big gay love was just— _radiating_ out there into the universe, drawing him in by name like a fucking magnet—“  
  
“God, Richie, come on. Listen to yourself.”  
  
“No, Ben, thanks, appreciate the solidarity, and the advice, but no fucking thanks actually. I think I’ll just continue to repress it, at least until big turtle man gives us some answers, or until I die. Probably the latter.”

He remembers Eddie's funeral again, the words whispered to an empty coffin, and feels sick. Ben just shakes his head, and Richie pushes off the rail and barrels inside before he can say anything else. He needs alcohol immediately, and he needs to find Eddie. He can’t tell him, but he also can’t leave things the way he did.

Beverly is already drinking, as is Mike, and he squeezes in between them to get to the whiskey. He pours a double and slams it back, then pours another without skipping a beat.  
  
“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev says, frowning at him. “You okay?”

“Better now,” he says, relishing the burn as he takes a swig. His thoughts are already getting fuzzier. “Where’s Eddie?” 

“Upstairs. Said he didn’t feel well, wouldn't let any of us follow him.” 

Richie nods and weaves his way upstairs, bumping into the wall twice. This is why he buys top shelf booze, for the instant buzz.

He hears retching when he opens his bedroom door, and rushes over to the bathroom. He can hear Eddie through the door, grunting and heaving.  
  
“Eddie? Eds, what’s wrong?” he calls through the door.  
  
Eddie groans, and it echoes. “Go _away_ Richie.”  
  
“No. I’m coming in.”  
  
He opens the door and sees Eddie curled over the toilet bowl, flushed and sweaty. Richie falls to the floor next to him and puts a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing gently. Eddie presses his forehead against his hand and moans pathetically.

"I hate throwing up."

“Did Ben’s cooking poison you?” Richie asks. He pushes some hair away from Eddie’s temple, and tries not to care when Eddie leans into his touch.

“No,” Eddie croaks. He spits into the toilet and grimaces. Richie flushes and reaches up for mouthwash; Eddie takes it gratefully and takes a huge swig, swishes it around in his mouth before spitting in the toilet again. He leans back against Richie’s bathtub and sighs.

“I uh. I’ve never talked about that before,” Eddie tells him. “It just. It was a lot, and then you— never mind.”  
  
“Shit, Eds, that was— that had nothing to do with you, okay, of course it didn’t. I was just, I don’t know. Surprised.”

Eddie snorts. “Surprised? Really? Jesus, I thought I was so obvious.”

“Yeah well, I was busy with my own shit. Kinda selfish of me. I should’ve seen it, Eds, I'm sorry.”  
  
“No, don’t fucking do that Richie. Can we just— we’re here now, lets just go from here, please.”

“Okay,” Richie agrees. He leans back against the cabinet and sighs. Eddie closes his eyes and leans his head back against the lip of the tub, taking deep breaths. “So... should we like, swap stories now, or something?”

Eddie lifts his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Like… okay, the first time I kissed a guy was in college, and I felt so guilty I locked myself in my dorm for a full week. I met my first long term girlfriend a week after that, but every time I kissed her I thought of that one fucking guy who’s name I can’t even remember. Then, when we broke up, I fucked the first guy I could and then never touched anyone again. Any guys, anyway." Eddie is gaping at him. "Okay. You go.”

“Jesus, Richie,” Eddie swears, laughing a little.

“Come on, that was a lot to admit while still sober. Mostly sober. Don’t leave me hanging.”  
  
“I don’t— I’ve never." Eddie sighs, scrubs a hand down his face. "I met Myra in college. And I never experimented, I just. Kept it all here.” He taps his chest with a fisted hand. His eyes flick between Richie’s and the counter behind him nervously. “I think I knew, before, but then It’s mindfuck or whatever just… erased it. Or not... not erased it. Not totally. It at least shoved it way back, far enough that I could pretend and not look too closely at it until I came back to Derry. And then everything happened and I never got to deal with it.”

Richie nods. "That sounds about right," he says, trailing off.

They sit in contemplative silence for as long as Richie can stand it. He blows a long breath out and says, “Well shit. I’m still new to this, relatively speaking, but I think it’s like, a gay rite of passage to have a heart to heart on a bathroom floor. We’re doing so great.” 

Eddie laughs, kicks his foot against Richie’s. Richie thinks about what Ben said, and his skin suddenly feels too tight. He can’t say he ever genuinely imagined his big gay crush as anything other than unrequited, and now its like his entire nervous system is in overdrive. He’s so wired he can fucking feel everything; his clothes are too scratchy, his glasses too bulky — everything is overstimulating as hell. It was one thing when he could love Eddie from far away, from a place where he knew he was safe from ever having to confront it in any real way. It’s another entirely to imagine saying the words out loud, to his face, where he can reject him for reasons other than performative heterosexuality.

“Ugh. I feel disgusting,” Eddie says after a minute. His ankle is still pressed to Richie’s, bone to bone, and he stares at it hard, unable to look Eddie in the eyes right now. “I think I need a shower.”

Richie doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at their feet pressed together, Eddie’s wrapped in a sock and Richie’s bare. The fabric tickles Richie’s skin but he doesn’t move away. He startles when Eddie knocks their ankles together again gently. 

“Hey. You hear me?” Eddie asks.  
  
“Huh?” He meets Eddie’s eyes and regrets it, feels himself blush hard for no goddamn reason.

“I said I’m gonna shower. That okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, whatever,” Richie agrees, voice high and a little breathy. He scrambles to his feet, Eddie following suit. Eddie frowns at him.

“You okay? Not gonna give me shit for running up your water bill or something?”  
  
“What? No I— I need to. We need to figure out, uh. Things. Have a good…clean.”  
  
He whirls around and practically runs out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Jesus fucking _Christ_.

* * *

They decide on a road trip, as there’s no discernible way around it. No matter how he approaches it, there's just no feasible way of buying an airline ticket for an undocumented dead man. And Richie knows people, the kind of people who own private jets, but none well enough to call in a favor quite as big as this. The less people roped into this shitshow, the better. Plus, “people” really translates to “person”, and that person hasn’t spoken to him in almost two years so. Road trip it is.

It’s a forty-seven to fifty hour drive if they don’t stop, an idea Eddie absolutely refuses to entertain. Even driving hard it means it’ll take roughly four days to get to Maine from LA. Ben and Bev decide to fly back home to take care of some loose ends in the interim, and Bill and Mike decide to fly straight to Maine together to see what they can dig up before the rest of them get there. Richie suspects that the real reason they decide to divide up is that none of them want to be stuck in a car with the two of them for four days, which is fair, if he’s being honest. They all witnessed Eddie yell at Richie for leaving the coffee creamer on the counter instead of putting it back in the fridge this morning, and that was with no other provocation. Throw in close quarters, sore butts and backs, and sleep deprivation, and it’s bound to be a blood bath. Richie can’t wait. 

Bev and Ben fly out the same day as Mike and Bill, and all of them hug Eddie a little longer than Richie when they drop them off. The last couple of days have lulled them all into a sense of security that seems to crack in the florescent light of the airport’s check in, and the possibility of losing him again looms over them like a storm cloud. Bev’s even a little teary when Ben pulls her away to dump their bags, throwing final glances and waves over their shoulders.

Richie and Eddie go home to pack, though of course it’s all Richie’s things they’re stuffing into one suitcase, which in and of itself makes Richie feel some type of way. Eddie casually puts his toothbrush in Richie’s dopp kit, carefully wrapped in a ziplock bag but touching Richie's all the same. He stares at it for a good four minutes straight before Eddie snatches it up to pack it. 

Richie is digging around his nightstand for his spare phone charger when his fingers brush against familiar thick plastic. His old cracked glasses, the ones he’d kept for reasons he never really understood. He picks them up and stares at the jagged lenses, dark red blood still tinging the space between the fractured glass. He tucks them into a side pocket of his suitcase without really thinking about it, still not quite understanding why.

\- - -

They leave early on Monday, and all things considered the first few hours are relatively uneventful. They listen to podcasts, to some of Richie’s playlists, and Eddie gives him shit for almost all of his picks. Richie catches Eddie up on all the pop culture and news he missed in his absence, and runs through his new material. Eddie mostly shits on some of the low brow jokes, but sometimes he genuinely laughs, making Richie feels warm all over. 

Richie talks Eddie into letting him drive straight through the first day and night to shave off some time. He promises Eddie he’ll do all of the driving, but of course Eddie insists on switching when he sees Richie start to nod off once. Richie bitches at Eddie to use cruise control while he sleeps, because he doesn’t much feel like getting ticketed and/or arrested for letting Eddie drive without a license. Eddie snaps back that he literally analyzes accident statistics for a living and always drives five miles under, so shut the fuck up and go to sleep. 

They continue this way more or less the entire twenty four hours, and it’s all so goddamn domestic and _comfortable_ that Richie could cry. It doesn’t occur to him that Eddie could disappear on him mid-drive until he startles awake from a nightmare of exactly that, and insists they switch again, threatening all manner of unpleasantness until Eddie agrees.

It’s just past midnight after the switch, and Eddie’s finally passed out again. Richie is blaring Fleetwood Mac through one headphone to stay awake, even though Eddie had also complained loudly about the safety hazards of that once already. He’s singing under his breath when Eddie suddenly jerks awake next to him with a yelp. 

“Fucking _shit_—“ Richie swears, jerking the car back into his lane. He pulls over to the shoulder and yanks the earpiece out, and puts a cautious hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie’s eyes are enormous, darting around wildly like he’s not sure where he is. 

“Eddie? Hey, you with me?” Richie asks. 

Eddie just stares out the windshield, panting. He closes his eyes tight for a minute, then squints at Richie when he opens them. 

“I told you not to wear headphones,” Eddie mumbles. 

“Have to drown out your snores and farts somehow, Spaghetti Head.”

Eddie swats at his shoulder but it’s weak. His eyes are already drooping again. 

“Go to sleep Eds, we’re halfway through Colorado.”

“Mmm,” Eddie hums. Without another word he adjusts his pillow so that it’s resting against Richie’s shoulder, and leans across the middle console to get comfortable. He sleeps soundly on Richie’s shoulder until they finally make their first real stop in Sterling, Colorado. 

Richie wakes Eddie so they can make an eight am Target run to get a few things. As much as he loves the visual of Eddie drowning in his sweats and tshirts, Richie decides he should probably get Eddie some clothes of his own. Eddie picks everything out himself, wandering away from the graphic tees Richie leads him to and gravitating towards the button downs. He chooses the nicest ones Target has to offer, as well as the fanciest looking jeans, sweaters, coat, and loafers. Richie leaves him to it and meets him awhile later, carrying a pack of undershirts, size small, to see Eddie holding a pair of fucking silk pajamas.

“You’re picking out your own underwear, cause if I do it, you're getting the Spongebob super pack in an extra small, and I _will_ require you to model them for me.” Eddie rolls his eyes before continuing to scowl at the pajama set. “Jesus Eddie, you know it’s like, forty degrees outside right? You got a hot date I don’t know about?”

“It’s called style, dumbass, not that you’d know what that is,” Eddie responds tersely. He considers the pajamas for a long minute, eyebrows pinched together seriously.

Richie looks down at his patterned button up. Not quite a Hawaiian, but not _not_ a Hawaiian. “This _is_ stylish, Eds. I’m a famous Hollywood comedian, do you think I could walk around being _un_stylish and get away with it?” 

“Famous, right. You haven’t even been recognized _once_.”

“Because we’re in bumfuck nowhere Colorado,” Richie says, ignoring the offended look from a nearby patron. “I was in Vanity fucking _Fair_. These people probably don’t even get Comedy Central this far out in the boonies.”

“Or, they _do_ get it, and they just don’t watch your shit because it’s awful.”

“Fuck you,” Richie responds, but it’s half hearted. Eddie is still looking at the pajamas, running his hands over the sleeves over and over again. “Come on Eddie, they won’t make your ass look anything but perfect, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Eddie shoots a glare in his direction but doesn’t stop his careful consideration. “I’m _thinking_ Richie, shut the fuck up.”

“God, if you’re risk analyzing these pajamas at eight-fifteen am in _Sterling fucking Colorado _when I’ve been driving for ten straight hours and am severely, _medically_ caffeine deficient, I am going to dropkick you, Kaspbrak.”  
  
“I’m not— that’s not even how risk analysis works, Richie,” Eddie snaps. “I’m just thinking that maybe I should keep wearing your stupid She-Ra tshirt to sleep in rather than spend money on these, dickswab.”

That shuts Richie up pretty effectively. “I— you don’t have to— I don’t mind buying them, Eddie, really.”  
  
“I know that.”

He looks at the pajamas for another few seconds before decisively hanging them back on the rack, right where he found them. He raises an eyebrow at Richie and walks away without another word, leaving Richie to follow after him like a helpless fucking puppy.

They slowly wander their way around in relative silence until they’re near the toy aisles. Richie leans heavily on the red cart while Eddie sidles along next to him, and he’s just about to try and salvage the weird tension between them when something catches his eye.

“Whoa! Hold up!” Richie cries, throwing a hand out to stop Eddie. It knocks a little too hard into his chest and Eddie winces. “Shit, sorry, but look!”

He points at a clearance rack, and Eddie’s eyes widen. 

“No fucking way,” he says. They both reach for it at the same time, slapping each other’s hands out of the way as they grapple for the plastic. They pull it off the rack with a clank and get stuck in a tug of war battle for it. 

“I saw it first, fuck off,” Richie grunts. 

“And I’m undead, _you_ fuck off.”

“Bullshit, you can’t use that for this,” Richie says, yanking hard on his side of the box. Eddie doesn’t let go, and just ends up getting pulled a step closer. 

“Yes, I can actually. I’m the world’s first, I make the fucking rules. Come on, you had one in junior high!”

“Yeah, and I generously _shared_ it with you, out of the goodness and love in my heart, if you recall.”

“Richie, come _on_,” Eddie says, dragging out the ‘o’. 

And Richie is just tired enough, and Eddie’s eyes are just big and doe-eyed enough that he has to concede. He sighs dramatically and drops the Gameboy; Eddie’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree and he starts examining the included games immediately. 

“Fine. But only because you’re so cute,” Richie says, planting a kiss to Eddie’s cheek without thinking about it. 

He doesn’t stick around to see Eddie’s reaction; he clumsily pushes the cart forward towards the electronics. It takes Eddie a minute to catch up; his face is pink when Richie glances at him. 

“We should see if they have more games for it,” Richie says. “Bet I can still kick your ass at Ghostbusters.”

They bicker about who was better at Gameboy for ten minutes while they look for more games. They luck out and find a few, including Ghostbusters, Prince of Persia, and Motocross Maniacs. They migrate to the grocery section and buy junk food and two massive coffees and then they’re back on the road. Eddie insists on driving, rudely pointing out the massive bags under Richie’s eyes. Richie falls dead asleep ten minutes into Super Mario Land, far too tired to worry about Eddie literally ghosting him and dying in a fiery crash.

He sleeps fitfully through most of the morning, waking up only to scarf down some McDonalds when Eddie stops around noon, and gets hooked playing Gameboy for a few hours. He falls asleep again around four, and the next time he wakes up, it’s dark out and Eddie is pulling into a motel. He’s out of the car and barreling into the office before Richie can even say a word. Richie is still stretching his absurdly stiff joints when Eddie emerges three minutes later with a room key.

“Room eleven,” he says tightly, pointing to room two down from where Richie is parked and looking a little like death warmed up. “I’m taking a shower first.”

“You don’t, uh— I can get my own room, if you want,” Richie offers, because he feels like he should.

“Shut the fuck up and get the bags,” Eddie tells him.

“Ooh la la, you’re so sexy when you’re bossy, Eduardo,” Richie teases, catching the keys Eddie tosses to him.  
  
He expects a bitchy comeback, or at least a disgusted face. Eddie visibly swallows and just stares, and _Christ_ Richie is way too tired to try and analyze what’s going on with his face right now.  
  
“Yeah?” Eddie says, voice a little rough. “That does it for you, huh?”

Which… _what_? Richie’s frazzled, sleep deprived brain promptly short-circuits. Eddie stares for another few moments before he grins, all smug and irresistible, and it really fucking shouldn’t be because Eddie’s hair is sticking up in twenty different directions, and his clothes are rumpled and he smells like fast food, but Richie still wants to jump his fucking bones. All he can do is gape when Eddie turns on his heel and into their room. 

Richie stares after him for a few minutes before pulling out his phone and dialing Bev’s number.

“Hey Trashmouth,” Bev greets him, and he can hear her smile. “How’s it going? How far have you gotten?”

“I don’t know, middle of fucking nowhere, somewhere in Nebraska maybe,” Richie says in a rush. “Uh, shit, sorry I just noticed how late it is, I can call back—“  
  
“No, Richie, it’s fine,” Bev assures him. “You okay? Is Eddie okay, you sound freaked out.”  
  
“Yeah, we’re fine. Look, I realize as I say this I’m operating on roughly three hours of sleep, and I’m approximately one stubbed toe away from a complete mental breakdown, but… I think Eddie just fucking _flirted_ with me. And don’t try any of that pretending you don’t know shit, okay, Ben told me everyone knows about my big gay feelings.”

“I’m not going to pretend, but Richie. Honey. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“What, no! No, for once in my fucking life I’m not, he literally just— made fucking _eyes_ at me, right, and said,” he lowers his voice into a husky approximation of Eddie’s, “‘that do it for you?’ all fucking sultry. Who even taught him to talk like that, cause I don’t think it was his wife, in fact I’m not even convinced they ever—“  
  
“Okay, Richie, breathe,” Bev instructs. He does, but it’s a little shallow, and a lot hysterical. “Now please listen to me. I mean this in the nicest, gentlest way but sweetie, you are a fucking moron.”

“Jesus Bev, you kiss Ben with that mouth?”

“Richie, Eddie has been flirting with you since the day I _met_ you.”  
  
Richie sucks in a breath, and closes his eyes tight. “No, Bev, come on. That’s just— that's just _Eddie_, that’s not— he wasn’t flirting.”  
  
“Really? He never acted like that with anyone else. Not even Bill, who let’s be honest, we _all_ had a crush on.”  
  
Richie can’t help but laugh. “Ugh, speak for yourself, Marsh.”

“You know I’m right. About all of it.”

It doesn’t have the same effect as when Ben more or less told him the same thing, because he’s had time to sit with and overthink the shit out of it. He doesn’t panic the way he did then, but it fills his stomach with the most ridiculous butterflies now that he’s seen evidence that maybe, just maybe, they aren’t talking out of their ass. 

“Okay, so. So. What the fuck do I do?”  
  
“What do you want to do?” Bev asks.

“Okay, if you don’t know the answer to that question I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing here.” 

“Beep beep Richie. You have what, three more days alone together? Plenty of time for some heart to hearts.”  
  
“Ew,” Richie says. “Bev I can’t just… it’s complicated, okay.”  
  
“What’s complicated? Richie, you _have_ to talk to him.”

“But he— look, he just tumbled out of the closet like, _yesterday_, I can’t spring that shit on him that quickly. And— and what if we can’t… what if he doesn’t…”  
  
“Richie. Even if… _if_ that happens,” Bev says gently. “Do you want to go through that again without him knowing?”

He chokes out a garbled little sound, sees initials carved into wood when he closes his eyes. “I can’t go through it again at _all_, Bev. I fucking can’t.”

“I know,” Bev says, and she sounds teary again, and he has to hang up _now_ because he can’t go from panicking that the love of his life flirted with him, to crying at the thought of losing him in less than sixty seconds. “My vote is that you tell him, but you know I’ll support whatever you decide.”  
  
“Gross,” Richie says affectionately. 

“Love you too, Trashmouth.”  
  
She hangs up, and Richie is left holding the phone limply in his hand and staring at the bags Eddie asked him to bring inside five minutes ago. He realizes belatedly that it’s fucking freezing out here and shudders. He lugs the bags out of the trunk and hesitates at the door, still having no idea what he’s going to do when he steps inside.

As it turns out, the decision is made for him. When he pushes the door open slowly, he finds Eddie strewn across the single queen bed, dead to the world. The shower in the bathroom is running; Eddie apparently only managed to strip off his shirt and one shoe and sock before the exhaustion got to him.

Richie checks his breathing, the way he’s done obsessively for the past four days, and then perches on the end of the bed to finish taking off Eddie’s other shoe and sock. He leaves his sweats on, because it’s Nebraska in October and the last thing they need is Eddie catching a cold. He vividly remembers the cold of 1988, and how insufferable Eddie and his mother were when, despite all his precautions, Eddie ended up catching it from Richie and Bill. Eddie snuffles in his sleep and turns over, and Richie holds onto his ankle for a long time before the exhaustion gets to him as well. He fumbles with his pajamas, throwing a warm sweatshirt on over his usual tee, and makes quick work of brushing his teeth. He shuts off the shower almost as an afterthought before finally dragging himself to the other side of the bed and climbing in next to Eddie.

* * *

Eddie’s mouth is on his neck, his tongue and lips trailing patterns up to Richie’s ear, one hand on his hip, other wrapped around Richie. His slight body is grinding hot against Richie’s back, and Richie lets out a breathless, “Eddie, _fuck_.” Eddie gasps his name in return, hand moving faster and whispering filthy in Richie’s ear. Richie moans and turns his head to press their lips together—

—and Eddie’s mouth _is_ on Richie’s neck, and it _is_ wet with Eddie’s spit, but in more of a drooly way and less of a sexy way. Richie’s eyes snap open, and he feels Eddie pressed against his back just as he has every night so far. Eddie’s breath is cooling his skin, wet with Eddie’s drool, and he shivers. He’s hard, and has a leg thrown out so he could grind against the mattress in his sleep, and he thanks every god he can think of, even the fucking turtle, that he woke up before things got embarrassing. 

Even so, he needs to take care of it, because he sees sunlight peeking through the curtains, and there’s no way he’s letting Eddie wake up to see him in this state. He crawls out from under Eddie’s arm, thrown heavy across his side, and sneaks into the bathroom as quietly as he can manage. He has a hand around himself as soon as the door closes, and bites his other to keep from crying out Eddie’s name, dream still playing out in vivid color behind his closed eyes.

When he’s finished and cleaned himself up, he goes back to bed and sees Eddie just as he left him, curled around the empty space Richie’s body just occupied. Guilt curdles in his gut as he creeps back under the covers, carefully settling on the other side of the bed and not touching Eddie at all. But Eddie’s like a heat seeking missile, and senses Richie’s warmth the minute he’s back. He snakes his arm back around Richie’s middle and snuggles into his neck, sighing against Richie’s skin like he’s exactly where he wants to be. Richie nearly cries again for the third time in two fucking days before falling back into a thankfully dreamless sleep. 

* * *

Morning comes for real a few hours later, and Richie blinks into the harsh light suddenly flooding their room. Eddie is awake, still lying in bed, frowning at Richie’s phone. He’s on his own side, and the space between them feels like miles after how close he was to Richie all night.

“Morning,” Eddie says tersely.

“Morning, Spaghetti,” Richie yawns. “Time is it?”  
  
“Ten. We overslept.”  
  
Richie stretches his arms over his head, loathe to leave the warmth of the bed. “Well it wasn’t exactly smart for either of us to be driving on no sleep, so I think we should consider it insurance for our continued survival. Don’t just agree to my stupid ideas so easily next time.”

Eddie doesn’t respond. He throws the covers off himself and stands, and Richie looks away pointedly when he stretches. Richie’s oversized sweats are riding low on his hips, and it does nothing to quell the memory of his dream that’s currently performing an unwanted encore in his head. He traipses around the bed towards the bathroom, throwing Richie’s phone onto the covers as he goes.

“I’m gonna shower. You got a text.”

The bathroom door all but slams shut. Richie frowns and picks up his phone, only to have his heart sinks directly into his ass when he sees who its from.

_‘Hey Richie. It’s been a few days, and I just wanted to say sorry for what happened at dinner. I don’t know what I did wrong, but whatever it is I’m sorry. I'd like to see you again sometime. Really hope to hear from you, and that you’re well.’_

_Fuck_. Fucking _Ryan_, he hadn’t even thought about him once since he told Eddie he wasn’t his boyfriend. As far as he’s concerned, that night was only about getting Eddie back, anything that happened before was just background noise. And that’s probably a really shitty way to treat a guy who didn’t do anything wrong, but he can’t be rational about that right now when it’s clearly pissed Eddie off.

He closes the text and opens up his recent calls, intending to call Bev again and beg her to fix this. What he sees is an unfamiliar New York number as his most recent outgoing call. Eddie must have called Myra again while he slept, and something ugly unfurls in his chest. It’s completely fucking irrational, he knows. They’re divorcing, Myra’s literally already remarried, but somehow it still fucking stings.

Eddie wraps up his shower much faster than usual, and emerges in a towel, gesturing for Richie to take his turn. The pink scar blooms across his chest, no more bruising to be found. Richie files that away and barrels into the bathroom without another glance, and tries to let his mind go blank as the water goes cold on his skin, cursing Eddie for using all the hot water.

When he's done, he comes out of the bathroom to find Eddie dressed in his new clothes from Target. He’s wearing tight jeans that fit annoyingly well, and a button down with a cozy looking maroon sweater over it, and his new loafers. He looks like the worlds sexiest tax accountant, and it just makes Richie even more irritable. He throws on his softest sweats and an old cable knit sweater he’s pretty sure he’s had since high school, almost in protest of Eddie’s elegantness, and doesn’t bother combing out his curls. Eddie looks like he’s about to bitch at Richie to dry his hair before going outside, but thinks better of it and snaps his mouth shut.

Richie gets them some fruit and pastries from the lobby, as well as two cups of coffee. They pack and load the car in silence, taking their breakfast with them to save time. Richie offers to drive first, and Eddie just nods and climbs into the passenger seat. Richie readjusts the seat and mirrors and then they’re back on the road.

They drink and eat once Richie’s back on the smooth highway, and neither of them bother turning on the radio. Eddie seems determined to stew in his silent rage, and Richie doesn’t want to be the one to cave first.

“Can I use your phone?” Eddie asks quietly after thirty minutes of silence.

It's out of his mouth before he can think better of it. “What for? Missing Myra already?”  
  
He sees Eddie whip around to glare at him out of the corner of his eye. He tightens his grip on the wheel, already regretting the words but too stubborn to apologize.

“No, asshole. She emailed me divorce documents that I need to read, and fuck you very much.”

“Oh,” Richie says stupidly. “Yeah um. Sure. Sorry.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie snaps, snatching up the phone and keying in the password.

“How’d you know my password by the way? And does your email even still work?”

Eddie sighs. “It’s my birthday, dumbass, you’re not exactly the Pentagon. And yes, apparently no one alerted fucking gmail when I died, so it’s still active.”

Richie feels himself reddening, but Eddie’s eyes are focused on the phone. They drive a few more miles, Richie listening to Eddie tap away and make various hmm-ing sounds as he reads through the documents. He glances over when Eddie’s been quiet for a few minutes and nearly crashes the car when he sees what Eddie’s looking at.

“Hey! Does privacy mean nothing to you, you fucking lunatic!”  
  
Eddie closes the text, and doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed when he says, “You didn’t answer him.”

“No, I didn’t, not that it’s anything to you,” Richie snaps. He chances another glance and sees Eddie’s opened it again, and is scrolling through older messages. He wrenches the car to the shoulder, ignoring the honks from behind him and Eddie’s strangled yelp, and pulls the phone from Eddie’s grip. 

“Eddie, what the _fuck_—“  
  
“I just want to know why you lied to me,” Eddie says peevishly, glaring at Richie with a storm of emotion Richie can’t begin to comprehend.

“Lied to—? I didn’t _lie_ to you,” Richie argues.

“You said he wasn’t your boyfriend,” Eddie says, quietly seething. “Those texts aren’t exactly platonic, Rich, so why did you say that? Were you just trying to get out of telling me you’re gay after all?”  
  
“No, Eds, Jesus— my head’s fucking spinning here, man,” Richie says. “We’re on our way to hunt down a fucking giant ethereal turtle and _this_ is what’s bothering you?”  
  
“Yes!” Eddie exclaims. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, Rich, I want to know why you lied to me!”  
  
“I didn’t lie!” Richie cries. “You crashed our first fucking date, Eddie, I barely know the guy! And yeah, we flirted a little before that, but it was like, G rated, middle school kind of flirting. I told you I haven’t— he’s _not_ my fucking boyfriend, I swear on my first edition X-Men. Or I would, but it’s in storage covered in about fifteen layers of protective plastic.”

Eddie cracks a tiny half smile at last. “Okay, fine, I believe you.”

Richie scrubs a hand down his face, dislodging his glasses a little. “_Thank_ you. God, Eddie after everything this week— every fucking second I’m convinced you’re gonna disappear on me, and here you are, reading my texts and accusing me of lying to you like it’s fucking high school.”

“I know,” Eddie says quietly. “I just— lets just forget it.”

“Fine, but you gotta get that look off your face like you need to angry shit.”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
They're quiet for a few minutes, breathing it out together the way they always did after a real argument. Richie didn't notice it until high school, and then once he did it was all he could concentrate on when they finished yelling at each other. Their breaths would regulate and eventually line up; they would inhale at the exact same moment and release it together, their bodies so attuned and in sync with the other in that freaky way that he's never understood. He wonders, not for the first time, if Eddie does it on purpose just to mess with him, but he never asks. He doesn't want to disturb the magic of it if it's real, or give Eddie the satisfaction of knowing he noticed if it's not. He watches the angry red flush of Eddie's cheeks slowly recede, the crease between his eyebrows smooth over. Eventually Eddie reaches over and rights Richie’s glasses, dropping his hand back to his lap with a sheepish expression, and Richie accepts it as an apology. 

“So. We’re good?” Richie asks. Eddie looks back at him and nods.

“Yeah. Good.”

Eddie holds his gaze for a minute, then pointedly looks at the road. Richie mentally shakes himself andslowly pulls back onto the highway.

Eddie clears his throat after a few minutes. “So uh. Weird time to bring it up, but we need to make a stop in New York on the way. I need to sign these, and meet Kevin in court. Ten forty-five Friday.”  
  
“Kevin?”

“Myra’s husband.”  
  
Richie snorts. “Of fucking course his name is _Kevin_.”  
  
“I know, right?” Eddie agrees with a laugh. “Anyway, Myra says he’s nearly sorted my legal situation out, should be wrapped up by the time we get there.”

“Right,” Richie says. “Do I even wanna know how he pulled that off?”  
  
“Couldn’t even tell you,” Eddie says. “I don’t understand a fucking word of it, but you can read the email if you want. You might be able to make more sense of it than me.”

“No. Thanks. Not unless you really want me to.”  
  
Eddie sighs. “I don’t give a shit, Rich.”  
  
And there it is again, Eddie’s unspoken but clear belief that he’s not making it through this. Richie’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel, but he refuses to engage, because if he thinks about it too hard he _will_ start sobbing and saying shit he’ll regret, and right now they just need to fucking _get there_.

They trade off driving around three, and Richie forces himself to stay awake while Eddie drives, primed for any sign that he’s going to discorporate, though he has no idea what that even looks like. The further away they get from that night at the restaurant, the more paranoid Richie becomes. He touches Eddie frequently, just to be sure he’s there, brushing his hand when he reaches for his coffee or slapping a good natured hand on his shoulder when he laughs at something Eddie says. If Eddie notices anything out of place he doesn’t comment on it, but he does lean into every touch, almost like he’s convincing himself as well.

They make good time and finally stop for the night around one am, in another small town in Indiana. Richie thinks they can probably wrap up in another day and a half if traffic cooperates, not including Eddie’s field trip in New York, and could be in Maine by Friday. Richie texts an update to the group chat. Mike and Bill have apparently made contact with the Shokopiwah and should have more answers by the time they get there. Ben and Bev are planning to fly out Friday morning.

Richie conveys all this to Eddie, who’s just showered and is dressed in a pair of his new boxers and Richie’s old She-Ra t-shirt, just like he’d said. The fabric is faded and the decal has peeled in several places from constant wear over the years. It makes Richie’s stomach flip to see Eddie in it. 

“I don’t even think that was mine,” Richie mentions when Eddie settles into bed next to him, Gameboy in hand. He pauses Ghostbusters to squint at Richie. “I’m pretty sure I remember you wearing that in high school, and it was like, fucking huge on you because you were so scrawny.”

“So… you’re admitting to theft. You stole it.” 

“No, fucker, I think you gave it to me. As some like, sentimental gift or some shit before college.”

Eddie frowns. “I don’t remember that.”

“Me neither. Not super clearly, anyway, I just kind of like… remember packing it, I guess. It’s really foggy.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He picks at the corner of the comforter, and he must be really fucking exhausted, because this isn’t exactly a Hilton and he hasn’t complained once about the state of the sheets or bathroom. And he didn’t get the chance to the night before, as he passed out before he could even mention the black light test.

“What’s the last memory you have of Derry?” Eddie asks out of nowhere, still staring hard at the blanket. “Before last time, I mean.”

“Um. Graduation, I think,” Richie answers. “I remember you being pissed because you lost your cap in the hat toss, and I offered you mine and you said something bitchy about lice.”

“Yeah, and I fucking stand by it.” 

Richie laughs. “Anyway, we went to take pictures, and you were still whining about it, so we all took ours off for the pictures. And then it starts to blur, but I remember hugging everyone, and then uh. Then it’s fuzzy.”  
  
It’s mostly true. He remembers hugging Eddie specifically, how tightly he’d held around his middle, how he’d let Richie nose at his neck and hair, even though they still had the whole summer before they left for college. He doesn’t remember why they didn’t go to the same school, but right now it feels like his life’s biggest regret. Their lives would have been so different if they’d just stuck together. They could’ve lived together, grown up with each other, supported each other. Maybe Eddie wouldn’t have died, maybe they wouldn’t have lived their entire lives as strangers to themselves.

“I remember the night you left for Stanford,” Eddie says quietly. “You snuck in because mom was being super possessive the closer it got to me leaving, and you tripped over all the boxes in my room and made so much fucking noise, I still don’t know how we didn’t get caught. We stayed up all night reading comics under the covers like we were ten years old again, and barely said a word to each other.”  
  
Richie swallows, trying hard to remember. All he can pick out distinctly is graduation, and Eddie clinging to him, but if he concentrates he can almost remember the shadows on Eddie’s crisp white sheets, the way they played across Eddie’s face.

“That’s the last thing I remember,” Eddie finishes. “That was the first thing I remembered when I saw you again at Jade.” 

“Could be worse. Could’ve been that time you weren’t wearing underwear and I pantsed you in gym.”

“Yeah, still fucking hate you for that,” Eddie says. He finally looks at Richie. His eyes are stupid big and doe-eyed again. “You don’t think you’ll forget everything again if I die, right?”

It’s the first time he’s spoken the fear aloud, the first time he’s described it as dying. Richie wants to throw something, or scream, or both.

“No,” Richie says definitively. Eddie’s eyes swim, and it just strengthens his resolve. “No fucking way. I couldn’t. And it’s a stupid question anyway Eds, because you’re not going to fucking die, so _stop _fucking saying that—“ 

Eddie lunges, crushing his body against Richie’s in an awkward side hug. Richie hesitates for just a second before he twists so he can gather Eddie close. Eddie wraps both arms around Richie’s neck, and Richie tugs him closer by his waist.

“Hey, it’s okay, Eds,” Richie says softly. Eddie isn’t crying, but he’s practically choking Richie with how hard he’s holding onto him. Richie just lets him, hugging back as tightly as he can without just fully pulling Eddie into his lap.

“Okay, I think we’re both officially too fucking old for trips like this,” Richie says after another minute of Eddie clinging. “It’s turning us into tired, sappy fucks. Come on, scoot down, Spaghetti.”

He pulls and shuffles until they’re lying flat. Richie turns on his side, and Eddie loosens his grip only to rearrange himself so that he’s tucked into Richie’s neck. 

“I’m gonna have to buy myself a body pillow if you keep this up Eds,” Richie jokes to ease the tension. He feels Eddie stiffen and responds by running a reassuring hand through his hair. “An Eddie-shaped body pillow. How do they make those? Do they make a cast of your body? Do you sit for one like a nude oil painting?”  
  
“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie says, muffled by Richie’s shirt. “By the way, tomorrow night— no less than four stars. These sheets are fucking disgusting.”  
  
“That’s my Eds,” Richie sighs fondly. He presses a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head, and within minutes Eddie drifts off. Richie stays awake for as long as he can, just listening to Eddie breathe, until his eyelids are heavy and he’s dragged into sleep.

* * *

The next day is more of the same, endless stretches of highway and rest stops and diner food. He realizes about halfway through Pennsylvania that he hasn’t gotten sick of Eddie once. Granted, they’ve argued nearly half the time they’ve been on the road about the pettiest shit imaginable, but he hasn’t once wished for some alone time, or yearned for the trip to end. He can’t speak for Eddie on the matter, but the fact that he hasn’t once forced Richie to get his own hotel room kind of speaks for itself.

They find a nice Marriott that is four and a half stars, as per Eddie’s snooty request. They watch pay per view and eat take out, and neither one of them mention the fact that they’ll be in Derry by this time tomorrow.

The night flies, and before he knows it Richie is pulling into NYC. He’s only driven in the city once, and remembers immediately how much he fucking hates it.

“God I hate it here,” Eddie complains, echoing Richie’s exact feelings when people honk on either side of them.

“You lived here for years, Eds.”  
  
“I know, and I fucking hated it. I just didn’t realize how much until recently.”

“Huh.”

They’re verging on the 'after' conversation that Richie’s been avoiding like the fucking plague. Richie clears his throat and asks Eddie for directions for the fifth time just to change the subject.

They find the courthouse and by some miracle, Richie finds a parking spot right outside. He puts the car in park and looks over at Eddie, who’s staring at the building like he’s expecting it to collapse on him.

“Want me to come in with you?” Richie asks.

“No,” Eddie answers without looking at him. “It’ll just make things messy, and prolong shit. I just— want to get it over with.”  
  
“Okay. I’ll go grab us some pizza across the street, we can celebrate when you’re done.”

Eddie huffs out an empty laugh and looks down. “Right. Celebrate.”

He pulls down the visor mirror and straightens his collar. “Does this look okay?”  
  
“Yeah, Eds, you look great.”  
  
“I mean, does it look professional? Target isn’t exactly known for it’s chic business attire.”  
  
“‘Chic’, listen to you,” Richie teases. “You ought to start your own fashion column in Fortune magazine, ’Top Ten Ways to Dress Up That Cheap Shit You Found in the Target Clearance Rack’.”

“Fuck you, I’m going now,” Eddie snaps. He yanks open the door and steps out, shrugging on his jacket and checking his reflection again in the window. Richie shoots him a thumbs up before he closes the door, and watches him weave his way through the gaggle of pedestrians. He blinks and Eddie’s through the door, leaving Richie feeling raw with nerves. 

He kills the time checking the rest of the route to Derry, fiddling with the radio before eventually shutting it off. Eventually he gets out and paces the block. At one point he stops to take a selfie with one of the nearby towering buildings, he has no idea which one, and sends it to the group chat with the Statue of Liberty emoji. No one responds, so he does another two laps around the block just to work off the nervous energy.

After nearly an hour of this, in which he finally caves and gets a venti mocha frap from Starbucks, he rounds the corner and spots Eddie on the steps of the building. He’s talking with a woman Richie vaguely recognizes as Eddie’s ex wife, as well as a tall bald man he assumes is the infamous Kevin. He stops in the middle of the walkway and just stares, not sure if Eddie would want him to interrupt or not. Before he can decide, he sees Myra lean in and kiss his cheek, and Kevin shake his hand. There’s a few more moments of goodbyes, and then Myra and Kevin are gone.

Eddie’s shoulders slump the moment they leave, and Richie’s feet move before he can register the action. He’s at Eddie’s side within seconds.

“Hey,” he says, making Eddie jump and nearly drop the manilla envelope in his hand.

“Jesus, Rich,” Eddie says. He looks Richie up and down and frowns. “Where’s the pizza?”  
  
“Pizza can wait, are you a real boy again?” Richie asks, nodding at the folder. Eddie hands it over, taking Richie’s coffee to free up his hands with a look of disgust.

“Do you know how much sugar they put in these? God Richie, you’re gonna get diabetes like, tomorrow drinking this shit.”  
  
“Shut up, I’m reading,” Richie says, skimming the documents. “Social security, license— shit, he even reversed your life insurance? How did he do this?”  
  
“Turns out, it’s easy to rescind a death certificate if there was never a body,” Eddie explains. “A doctor never declared me dead, so it was actually pretty simple, according to Kevin. He spun my shit story into something believable too, judge didn’t even ask any questions.”  
  
Richie whistles low under his breath. “And the divorce?”  
  
“Even easier. Over in a minute.”  
  
Eddie takes a sip of Richie’s frap despite condemning it a mere thirty seconds ago. There’s an unreadable expression on his face as he drinks, mouth twisting into a little grimace when he swallows.

“How uh. How are you feeling about that?” Richie asks hesitantly. Eddie’s eyes slide to his slowly. 

“It is what it is, I guess.” He shrugs, takes another sip. Suddenly the vacant look is replaced with a grin, and before Richie knows what’s happening Eddie is reaching for his collar and tugging him down, and he feels Eddie’s cold lips against his cheek, brushing the corner of his mouth.

Eddie is beaming when he pulls back.

“Uh…wh—“  
  
“You promised pizza.”  
  
Richie shakes his head, forces his hand to stay put and _not_ touch his cheek the way he desperately wants to. “Yeah I— I did, and I’m a man of my word Eds, uh. Lead the way.”

Eddie grins again and turns, leading a dazed Richie across the street. Eddie effectively commandeers his coffee and finishes it before Richie can even order the pizza. They order four slices to share, each with different toppings. They’re perched on stools at the counter; it’s a tiny place, and Eddie is knocked into about four times, snarling obscenities at the offender each time. It’s all so _Eddie_, and Richie can’t stop smiling the entire time they eat. He can feel there’s still something unsaid about what happened in the courthouse, but Richie doesn’t want to disturb the moment and tables the ‘feelings’ conversation for later. 

It’s nearly noon when they get back on the road. Eddie flips off NYC in the rearview as they pull out of the city and laughs, sounding lighter than he has since he came back. Richie joins in, taking both hands off the wheel to flip a double bird, laughing harder when Eddie shrieks at him to focus on the road.

They take the scenic route to Maine to see the leaves changing. Eddie insists they get out to take pictures somewhere in New Hampshire, and they find a stranger who takes a few pictures of them posing in front of a tree with brilliant copper and red leaves. There’s one where Richie has his cheek pressed to the top of Eddie’s head and making a stupid face at the camera, but their impromptu photographer also managed to catch the moment just before where he’s genuinely smiling. He sends it to the group chat along with their ETA. Ben and Mike love the image, and Bev sends a heart eyes emoji.

It’s sunset by the time they roll into Derry. Richie’s heart starts pounding, sweaty hands slipping over the steering wheel, and he feels a little queasy as they pass the familiar welcome sign. He purposely avoids the route that would take them down Neibolt, despite it being the fastest way to the townhouse. He’s sure he would puke all over the dash if he had to look at the ruins of the house right now. Eddie’s silent and tense next to him, bothof his legs bouncing anxiously; Richie reaches over and touches his left knee to still it, and leaves his hand there the rest of the drive.

When they reach the townhouse, the other four are outside waiting for them. They all have a similar tension in their expressions but smile through it for Eddie’s sake. Richie _really_ can’t believe they’re back in this fucking hellhole voluntarily.

They park, and are pulled into hugs the moment they’re out of the car. Richie relaxes a little when Mike wraps him in his strong embrace; they’re all together, that’s the best they can do. They gather in a semi-circle once everyone has been hugged. Richie’s heart clenches when he sees the empty space that should be occupied by Stan, the space that they all unconsciously leave open for him every time they’re together. 

“Welcome home. G-glad to see you in one piece,” Bill says affectionately, ruffling Eddie’s hair. Eddie doesn’t even swat it away. “Thought you’d kill each other for s-sure.”

“Nah. Eddie’s a delightful travel companion. Did _you_ know that there are over two hundred and fifty foodborne illnesses that are common in fast food? Or that sixty eight percent of bed bug cases are found in hotels? _Fascinating_ stuff.”

They laugh at the scowl Eddie aims at Richie and go inside. Ben graciously hauls their suitcases for them and lugs them all the way upstairs. Richie’s stomach well and truly churns walking through the familiar lobby. The last time he was here he was being effectively dragged out by Bill, blabbering about Eddie, convinced that if he stayed he’d see him again on the balcony. He’d caused a minor scene, and was technically asked not to patronize the establishment again. He really hopes that particular manager has moved on, for all their sakes.

Bev pours them all a drink, which Richie takes gratefully and finishes in two gulps. He sees Eddie finish his with similar voracity, and refills both their glasses, ignoring Bev’s raised eyebrows.

They spend a few minutes catching up. Richie and Eddie give them the cliff notes of their road trip, and Ben and Bev chat about the errands they had to run at home, or something. Richie isn’t really listening.

“So what’s the plan Mike?” Richie asks after he can’t stand it any longer. He’s pretty sure he cut Bill off mid sentence, but no one holds it against him. No point beating around the bush. This weekend’s strategy is to get in and out as quickly as possible.

Mike takes a long pull of his drink. “Well, Bill and I learned a summoning ritual from the Shokopiwah. There’s no guarantee it’ll work, no one has attempted it in living memory. And after last time, I think it’s safe to assume that there’s a real possibility it might be outdated, or incomplete.”  
  
“Great,” Richie grouses.

“It’s a s-start,” Bill says.

“What do we need?” Ben asks. 

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow,” Mike says evasively, eyeing Eddie’s ever worsening anxiety face. “Let’s just try and get some sleep tonight.”

And that’s that. Conversation over, at least for now. The night ends with the six of them drinking until the demons are far enough at bay that they can attempt to sleep. They didn’t ask, and it doesn’t come up until they’re all ready to drag themselves to bed, but Bev apparently booked them in a room together, explaining that the townhouse was ‘full’ with a sly little wink when Eddie isn’t looking. Eddie follows Richie upstairs without a thought, sleepily stumbling into his back twice. They go through their nightly routine, and they don’t talk about tomorrow, and Richie falls asleep with Eddie tucked in what has become his usual place, safe and solid under his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is literally just. a 10k study of tenderness in sleeping. and i, an american, had to google 'map of united states' more times than i'd like to admit to get through this
> 
> as i said before, this chapter was not planned and is the fault of my own stupid plothole that i didn’t catch until i started writing it. i then wrote about 6k of the road trip before remembering richie is famous and would probably know someone with a private jet, but by then i was in too deep so i just stuck with it and here we are with the longest chapter of the fic where nothing fucking happens mmfsdjfs [peace sign emoji] 
> 
> thanks to emma and ale for their suggestions for the playlist, even though each one made me want to walk into the ocean. and check out ale’s [incredible video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcDxxOWJK7M&t=0s) to one of the songs on it, aka the reason it’s on the playlist in the first place. & if you have any suggestions for the playlist pls tell me, like i said i’m still adding to it <3 oh and happy halloween :)
> 
> [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/) xo


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mild descriptions of drowning and blood. its pretty tame, just be careful <3

  
’It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in sunlight.’  
-Oscar Wilde

* * *

_There’s a selfishness to what he’s doing that he doesn’t consider until Richie bombs his first show. It’s not something he wants to consider, because Richie is all he has, but the image of his stricken face, the manic look in his eyes, the way he’d single-mindedly chased after him in the aisle - it stays with him for a long time. At some point he realizes he can’t just fucking torture Richie forever. No matter how desperate he is to get back to him, to the world of the living._

_So, reluctantly, he backs off. He wanders along the veil, and he catches glimpses of Richie occasionally, but he doesn’t try to break through. He just watches him for awhile before moving on. He finds that if he walks long enough, he can see things other than Richie. He sees a glimpse of Ben and Bev once, at a closing for their new house together. He finds Mike on a beach in what he presumes is Florida, content and relaxed with a book in his lap. Bill deep in concentration, editing his latest novel. He even sees Myra once, walking along the streets of New York, not a single worry line on her face for the first time since their wedding. That one stings, just a little. And it makes him ache, and it makes him happy, to see all his friends have moved on, have found their peace. But no matter how far he goes, he always comes back to Richie, one way or another. Still clutches his ruined jacket close to his chest._

_It should be maddening, being alone and watching their lives continue without him while he’s stuck in limbo, and maybe it is. Maybe he’s slowly going insane, because he finds himself wishing for the company of his younger self again, or better yet, young Richie, but they don’t show. It’s just Eddie, the veil, and the shadow all for eternity. _

_Time, as always, is a fucking mystery. He tries to measure the passage of it by Richie. He catalogues the length of his hair, the stress lines in his face the closer he gets to his next tour, but he sees him so infrequently now that it’s nearly impossible to gauge time in any meaningful way. Later, he’ll learn that he went on this way for a month. It felt like years. _

_He discovers a pattern of sorts, the only measurable phenomenon he can figure out. Every time the shadow passes over him, he feels a tingling warmth in his chest, and when he looks down, his wound has stitched itself together a little more. The darkness consumes him, disappears, and another inch of skin patches itself together. By the fourth or fifth pass, the one on his cheek has faded entirely. _

_Gradually, the veil starts to deepen. It becomes harder to see Richie, like looking through frosted glass rather than the filmy gauze from before. It’s probably for the best; he was becoming a pretty weird fucking voyeur, but he still panics a little. There’s nothing else for him here, and it can only mean that his time in this place is coming to an end. He’ll move on to whatever the fuck is next. _

_“You should not be here.” _

_It’s the voice, the one he’s heard only once before. He knows who it belongs to, even if he can’t see them. He has no concept of how long its been since he last heard it, when the shadow first appeared. Every moment since has bled together meaninglessly, slipping through his fingers like water. He’s already forgotten that it’s spoken until it speaks again. _

_“Go. Through the gateway. I will find you again when it is time.” _

_Eddie looks up, sees nothing but darkness. The veil shimmers, shudders into sudden transparency. Eddie sees a busy sidewalk, catches a glimpse of familiar shoulders weaving their way through the crowd amidst brewing storm clouds. _

_“Go. Now.” _

_So Eddie does, without question, trancelike. He steps through, and it’s easy as stepping through a waterfall. There’s a weight on his shoulders that lifts the moment he’s through. He emerges onto a busy street, but no one seems to notice his sudden apparition. Someone rams into his shoulder, and instinct leads him to whirl around to complain. He stops short of yelling when notices the ease with which he can move. He looks at his hands, flexing and clenching them experimentally. He blinks, and looks around for some kind of clue of where he is. _

_Richie is across the street, checking his hair in the reflection of a window. Eddie’s heart skips a beat and he walks toward him, feet and legs working automatically, mechanically, another small wonder. Richie disappears inside; Eddie watches him for awhile through the glass, feeling his breath catch when he remembers he doesn’t have to just watch. He can step through the door, he can walk right up to him, can theoretically speak to him. The realization makes him a little dizzy. _

_He doesn’t do any of that. He takes a few deep breathes, reveling at the way his chest expands, at the way his heart pounds hard and fast in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a waiter emerge from a side door, pulling a pack of cigarettes from their pocket. The man paces as he smokes, and when his back is turned Eddie slips in through the door. _

_No one bothers him as he sneaks through the kitchen, which is irresponsible as fuck considering his torso is still covered in blood. A few give him a strange look but don’t make any move to stop or question him. He makes a mental note to never eat here, despite not knowing where here even is; there’s no fucking way they’re complying with health codes if they can let this slide. _

_Richie’s in the back corner, talking to a tall blonde guy pretty animatedly. Eddie sits at an empty table to observe. Blonde guy leans in, lets his hand rest suspiciously close to Richie’s, though Richie doesn’t seem to notice. He laughs though, and looks down in an uncharacteristically shy way, and it’s very clear that he’s on a date. _

_His chest tightens, and he wonders for a half second if he’s going to have a heart attack in his first ten minutes back on earth, because all the grand fucking speeches he’d spent god knows how long planning have just taken a one way trip down the fucking toilet. _

_Richie looks up, and Eddie knows he’s spotted him because the hand holding his drink falls heavily onto the table. He doesn’t even seem to notice the liquid that sloshes over onto his hand. He sees Richie make some excuse, and then he’s out of his seat and walking towards him, and Eddie panics; he stands and scurries into the nearest alcove. _

_Richie finds him though, of course, and gapes at him. It’s maybe the first time Eddie’s ever seen him speechless. He says the first thing that comes to mind, taking a moment to be astonished that he can speak at all. _

_“About time you got laid, Trashmouth.”_

* * *

There’s a creaking sound in the room that slowly drags Richie from sleep. He startles awake, and falls immediately back to sleep without realizing he’d woken until it comes chirring through his ears again several minutes later. He blinks blearily at his surroundings, looking for whatever it is he needs to throw his shoe at to shut it up. He sees a figure by the window, curled on the bench beneath it, knees drawn to their chest. 

“Eddie?” 

The figure turns. Richie grapples at the nightstand for his glasses, and once they’re in place he can clearly make out Eddie looking at him. He takes a pull from a bottle, and the movement causes the old wooden bench he’s sitting on to creak ominously.

“Hey,” Eddie replies roughly. 

He doesn’t say anything else. Richie glances at his phone: 2:47 AM. 

“What are you doing up?” Richie asks groggily, climbing out of bed. It’s not graceful; he’s half asleep and his feet get tangled in the sheets. He stumbles twice on his way to Eddie. 

“What does it look like?” Eddie responds sardonically. He holds the bottle up like a salute and takes another swig. 

And Richie hears it then, the slight slur, indicating he’s been at this long enough to at least be tipsy. Richie joins him on the narrow window seat; he has to crook his leg up against his chest to fit, and their knees press together. Eddie looks out the window, avoiding his gaze. 

“Did you steal this from downstairs, Eds?” 

Eddie tsks, frowns at him. “I didn’t _steal_ it, I’m a guest here aren’t I? I can have some of their booze.” 

“Yeah… still don’t think they’d appreciate you nicking an entire bottle of Grey Goose, even if their security _is_ questionable.”

“What are you, a cop?” Eddie asks, snorting a little at his own joke, which turns into a full blown giggle. Richie laughs himself, and plucks the bottle from his hand. 

“You know, with as much as you hate puking, I’d have thought you’d be pretty turned off drinking. Especially after what happened at senior prom.” 

Eddie groans. “Ugh. You know I didn’t drink for like, two years after that? I was fuckin’ stone cold sober my first two years of college because of you.”

“_Me_? Eddie, I’m _hurt,_ that you would dare insinuate that I’d ever harm a hair on your precious head.” 

“Yeah? I seem to remember you being the one that kept pouring Jaeger down my fucking throat. I threw up for like a week fucking straight.” 

“What was I supposed to do! You’re such a cute little drunk! You get extra handsy and start singing show tunes, I couldn’t help myself.” Eddie grins and looks at his hands, faint blush staining his cheeks. “And I took care of you, remember, I brought you Gatorade, and I lugged my Nintendo 64 all the way up through your window, and let you borrow it for a whole month even though I hadn’t beaten ‘Ocarina of Time’ yet.” 

Eddie snorts. “My hero,” he deadpans. Richie beams anyway. “Anyway, uh. ‘M not usually a big drinker but you know. Shit happens.” 

“Yeah, shit happens,” Richie agrees absently. Eddie’s still staring at his hands. “How much have you had?” 

“I dunno. Couple swigs. I’m only sorta buzzed, honestly.” 

“You seem a little more than buzzed.” 

“Yeah well, ‘m a fucking lightweight, as previously mentioned, so sue me.” 

They sit in silence for awhile. Eddie doesn’t ask for the bottle back. He just looks between Richie, the window, and his hands for a long time. Richie lets it sit for as long as he can, but eventually he can’t stand the silence anymore. 

“Eds, I know I’m shit at this kinda stuff, but I’m willing to put my five percent sincerity into action if you wanna, you know. Talk about anything.” 

Eddie huffs out a weird sound, something between a laugh and a whimper. “Yeah, well. I’m shit at it too. Don’t even know where the fuck I’d start. Actually, scratch that, yes I do: _fuck_ the universe for putting us in this fucking room, tonight of all nights.” 

Richie furrows his eyebrows, glances around, then goes cold all over. He hadn’t even noticed, was too exhausted when they came up here a few hours ago to notice anything but the bed and the same hideous green wallpaper. But it’s the same fucking room, the same balcony just three feet to Richie’s right, where Eddie first appeared, covered in fresh blood. 

“I didn’t have any control over that one, you know,” Eddie says. Richie nods, but he doesn’t really know. Eddie must see it in his face because he continues, “Over… showing up here. He just asked if I wanted to see you. I said yes, and next thing I know, poof. There you are.” 

“How— uh, how did you get through the final time?” Richie asks. “Was it different?” 

Eddie shrugs, and frowns. “I can’t actually… I don’t remember. I remember stepping through, and I remember it being easier than the other times but… everything before that is a blur.” 

“Huh,” is all Richie says. He takes a swig of vodka too quickly, winces as it burns. They’re quiet again, Richie taking a few more sips and feeling his eyelids droop. Eddie fidgets, plays with the peeling decal on Richie’s She-Ra shirt, runs his hands over the tops of his knees, never meeting Richie’s gaze. Richie’s just about to make a comment about restless leg syndrome when Eddie reaches for his arm, and drags his eyes to Richie’s face at last. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, suddenly deathly serious, attention so hyper-focused on Richie that it takes him by surprise. Richie squirms a little under it; usually he basks in Eddie’s undivided attention, goes out of his way to get it, but right now the intensity of his gaze is unsettling. Eddie’s hand tightens on his forearm. “Richie, listen, being there… I had like, a shit load of realizations about my life, and _myself_, and-and I need to tell you. If tomorrow goes wrong, if I don’t—“

“Eddie, what have I told you about saying that shit?” Richie interrupts harshly, closing his eyes. If he can’t see Eddie he can pretend the shit he’s saying isn’t real. He’s just about to plug his ears too when Eddie grabs a hold of his chin, and forces him to focus back on him.

“Shut up, Richie, for _once_ in your fucking— I’m trying to be serious, is that okay? Can you please focus your five percent sincerity right here, on me, just for _one_ fucking minute?” 

“_No._ Sorry, no, not if you’re gonna be talking some fatalistic bullshit. In fact, I think it’s time to go back to bed. You’re drunk.” 

Richie stands, pulls Eddie up by his arms with shaky hands. Eddie either doesn’t notice or is just tactful enough not to mention it for once, but he does squawk out, “I’m not fucking _drunk, _dumbass—“ while Richie leads him to the bed. His argument is weakened by the way he stumbles a little, gripping Richie’s biceps hard to keep himself from falling. 

Richie sits him on the edge of the bed, and notices for the first time what’s on Eddie’s feet. 

“You put your shoes on just to go downstairs? Socks too?” 

“Richie, I wear shoes just to take my trash out, you really think I’m gonna walk around barefoot in this place,” Eddie huffs. 

Richie just sighs and kneels down to untie the laces. He tugs them off, then socks, because he knows Eddie’s bedtime routine as well as his own by now and knows he can’t sleep with socks on. He straightens his back and almost makes a crack about Eddie’s adorable stature, because even on his knees like this he’s still slightly taller. But he catches sight of Eddie’s face and quickly decides against it. Eddie’s watching Richie with this dazed look on his face, and the selfish, lovesick part of Richie wants Eddie to keep looking at him like that. He rests one hand on the bed next to Eddie’s left thigh to balance himself, reaching with his other to tug the comforter down. But before he can, Eddie fists both his hands in Richie’s collar.

Richie’s eyes lock with Eddie’s, and they’re so close he can feel Eddie’s breath on his cheeks. He’s hovering, balanced awkwardly between Eddie’s legs with both hands pressed into the mattress, but he can’t move. Eddie is looking at him in a way that has him paralyzed, a little stupored like before but with a glint of something else in his eyes, something sharper. Richie just lets him look for a lingering moment, trying to school his own face into something less desperate, air in the room steadily growing thicker. 

“Five percent?” Eddie murmurs, breath ghosting across Richie’s lips, gaze flicking down. 

“Wh—“ 

Eddie tugs, crushes their mouths together in a hard kiss, and the entire world tilts on its axis. Any coherent thought Richie might have had fizzles like a firecracker tossed in a pool. He makes some sort of sound, a shocked, high pitched whine that has Eddie pulling him even closer, spreading his legs until Richie’s practically in his lap. Eddie pulls back to catch a breath, and Richie is chasing his mouth and kissing him back without even thinking about it. He tilts his head for a better angle and his entire body fucking lights up when Eddie sighs into it. Eddie’s hands slide into Richie’s hair, curling at the nape of his neck. Richie’s own finally catch up with his brain and he wraps them around Eddie’s back, feels Eddie’s fingers tighten in his hair. Eddie parts his lips, tongue flicking against Richie’s bottom lip, and he gasps and breaks the kiss. 

There’s a long moment where they just breathe; Eddie’s staring at him like he’s never really seen him before, and Richie shivers when his eyes flash back down to Richie’s mouth hungrily. 

“What was _that_?” Richie breathes, lips still brushing Eddie’s. He wants to kiss him again so bad it hurts, but he waits, panting, eyes going a little crosseyed as he tries to gauge Eddie’s expression. 

“You wouldn’t fucking _listen_ to me,” Eddie says exasperatedly, sounding a little annoyed but mostly like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him. His lips tremble, and he presses another soft kiss to Richie’s lips like he can’t help himself, and it kind of makes him want to cry. 

“_This_ is what you were trying to tell me?” Richie asks incredulously. “This whole time?” 

“_Yes_,” Eddie says petulantly. “And… no, actually, but. You’re so fucking _annoying, _and you wouldn’t ever let me get the fucking words out. This was supposed to come second, not be a fucking diversionary tactic.” 

“Sounds kind of like an excuse, Edward,” Richie teases. The room is lit only by moonlight, but he can see a blush spread across Eddie’s cheeks. “We had lots of alone time this week, you know.” 

“Yeah, well, what’s your excuse?” Eddie retorts, grinning when Richie’s smug smile fades. “Seems to me like this is a two way street, asshole.” 

“Nope,” Richie says, leaning in and pressing his lips to Eddie’s once, twice. “Nope, that’s where you’re wrong. This is a pity kiss, I’m not even enjoying it.” 

“_Richie_,” Eddie admonishes, muffled against Richie’s gentle, insistent lips. “I know you’re full of shit, but that’s like, literally one of my hang ups, could you _please_—“ 

Richie kisses him hard, the force of it making Eddie rock backwards for a second before he melts into it, because that won’t just fucking do. He refuses to let Eddie think, even jokingly, that he doesn’t want this more than he’s ever wanted fucking _anything_. Eddie’s hands drag through his hair again, and when Richie thumbs over his hipbones Eddie jerks, and makes a sharp, breathless sound Richie wants to hear again, and again, and every fucking day for the rest of his life. 

“That’s one for the spank bank,” Richie says when they part, and Eddie rolls his eyes, looking a little dazed again. “And as much as I love being on my knees for you, I am pushing forty-one and I’m kind of dying, so could we maybe—“ 

“Come here,” Eddie says softly. He shuffles back, kissing Richie as he goes and making it all the more difficult for Richie to follow him in any kind of graceful manner. He lets Richie hover over him, push him into the mattress and lick into his mouth. He tastes like mint, and a little like vodka—

Richie pulls back abruptly and sits back on his heels, and Eddie whines. “Wait, you’re drunk. This isn’t like, a last night on earth kind of deal is it?” 

Eddie pulls himself up with a heavy sigh, and they sit across from each other, still close but not quite touching. Richie feels cold without Eddie pressed against him. “Richie, for fucks— _no_. I’m not even drunk!” 

“You’re drunk _adjacent_,” Richie argues. “If you wake up tomorrow with regrets then I _will_ have to drown myself in the quarry, and I will not hesitate to haunt you.” 

“I’m not going to have fucking regrets,” Eddie says firmly, and something in the tone of his voice sobers Richie a little. Eddie blinks at him, and bites his lip in a really distracting way. His throat bobs when he swallows, and then he’s talking again and Richie has to work hard to redirect his focus. “The only thing I’ll regret is not saying what I’ve been trying to tell you since I— fuck.” He rubs both hands down his face, sighing behind his hands. Without warning he reaches out and cups Richie’s face between his hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “I love you, you fucking lunatic, okay? I’m fucking _in_ love with you, and I-I think that’s the only reason I was able to come back, was because I missed you so _fucking_ much wherever I was. All I could see was your stupid face the whole time I was there, and I was able to come back because— I was coming home. To you. And I know that’s way too fucking corny to say out loud but fuck it, I’m saying it anyway, because I need you to know it just—just in case. I love you,” he says again, like Richie didn’t hear him the first time, like Richie’s entire body isn’t humming like a fucking live wire, like there aren’t tears threatening to spill over any second. 

Eddie’s hands fall to Richie’s neck, thumbs trailing along his jawline just as gently as they’d been on his cheeks. He must be able to feel the way Richie’s pulse is jumping in his throat, his heart pounding so fast he’s sure he’s going to pass out any second. He obviously takes Richie’s silence as hesitation, because he starts to look a little alarmed the longer Richie just stares at him. 

“Richie, you don’t— you don’t have to reciprocate but you need to fucking say _something_.” 

Richie sniffs, and blinks the tears out of his eyes; they track slowly down his cheeks. “I don’t think I can. I think I’m unlearning the entire English language right now, and then I’m going to spontaneously catch on fire, and then even the fucking turtle won’t be able to save me—“

“_Richie_—“

“I mean it Eds, I’m... I can’t _believe_ you, you stepped on my whole thing!” He wipes at his cheeks, and Eddie’s thumb follows, brushing away the remnants of his tears. “I was going to come at you with a big sweeping confession, right in the thick of the action, just as mutant ninja turtle god bestowed his blessing on your soul, or whatever, and you _ruined_ it!” 

“You’re so full of shit,” Eddie says, laughing. His hands drop from Richie’s face to his lap, and Richie immediately catches them between his own. “You were never gonna fucking tell me. And you _still_ haven’t, I should add.” 

“Yes I was! God, Eddie, do you know how long I’ve wanted to tell you? And— five percent, okay?” Eddie nods, and Richie cups Eddie’s cheek with one hand, grazing over the scar with his thumb. “I love you Eds, I love you so fucking much it’s like, unhealthy probably. I fucking hated myself for not telling you, I— everyday you were gone I thought about what I should have said. I thought about it every fucking second, and I thought it would get easier but it fucking didn’t because it’s always, _always_ been you, Eds. I mean, you saw what I was like when you were gone, you—you get it. I’ve been in love with you longer than I can even remember, I— you believe me right?” 

“Yeah, Rich, I do,” Eddie says, gentler than he’s ever been. He leans in and kisses Richie, slow and sweet, and Richie tries to instill his words into the kiss, to make sure Eddie really, really gets it. He thinks he does because Eddie sighs and pushes at his shoulders until Richie gets the point and lays back. There’s an awkward tangle of limbs, and then Eddie covers Richie’s body with his own, and when Richie deepens the kiss Eddie moans and throws a leg over Richie’s hips, straddling him without breaking the kiss. Its maybe the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him, and all they’re doing is making out. 

“God, If only teenage Richie could see us right now,” Richie says, voice strangled, when Eddie pulls back to nose at his throat. 

Eddie stops what he’s doing and frowns. “Are you literally incapable of shutting up? Even with my fucking tongue in your mouth?" 

“Don't act like you don't like it, I've got your number now."

“Richie—“ 

“Admit it. This is a kink friendly zone. I’m all ears on how to ignite your pocket rocket.” 

“Oh my god. I take it back, I do regret this, actually.” He tries to pull away but Richie pulls him back by his arms and kisses what he can reach, which turns out to be Eddie’s chin. 

“Nope. Too late, Spaghetti,” Richie says, grabbing hold of Eddie’s face and angling him in for a proper kiss. Eddie sags against him, letting all his weight fall on Richie’s chest, moaning when Richie’s tongue slips over his bottom lip and into his mouth. Eddie pushes his hands out of the way and gets a grip on Richie’s hair again. Richie’s hands wander up and down Eddie’s sides, brushing up under his shirt. Eddie arches into the touch, and the movement presses their crotches together, making Richie hiss against Eddie’s mouth. Eddie does it again, more insistent, and Richie’s fingers curl into Eddie’s skin. 

“Eddie,” Richie gasps. “Eddie, it’s— it’s late and we have—“ Eddie kisses him, thoroughly distracting him for a good minute. “—we have a— a _thing_ with a turtle in like… four hours, we should— _fuck_.” 

“Richie,” Eddie says impatiently. “I love you, dumbass. And you love me. And I don’t know if I’ll still be here tomorrow, and— _don’t fucking interrupt_,” he cuts off Richie’s usual protest to that statement. “And I _want_ you.” He arches again in that way that makes Richie’s head spin. 

“Okay,” Richie says hoarsely, eyes squeezing shut when Eddie starts kissing his neck, biting gently at his pulse point. “And I want you too, Eddie baby, _so_ bad but hear—hear me out, okay?” 

Eddie hums to show he’s listening, but keeps up his attention to Richie’s throat. 

“So— Maturin, right? Maturin sees, hey, those kids finally worked it out, but what’s this? They never got to consummate their beautiful, all encompassing lifetime love?” He groans when Eddie nibbles a sensitive spot below his left ear. “And— and he thinks, ‘wow, it’d be a real dick move not to let Eddie live so they can bone’, so—“

“Hang on,” Eddie says, finally surfacing from Richie’s neck. “You’re saying… we shouldn’t have sex, because maybe the being that created the _universe_, will take pity on us and let me stay? This is a _strategic_ decision, in your mind?” 

“Well, we have to spin it right! You’ll have to wax on about all that, ‘Richie is my home’ stuff first, get the waterworks going.” 

“So you think he’s going to cry?” 

“Listen, Eds, don’t underestimate the power of love, okay? It’s what saved Harry Potter.” 

“Jesus Christ Richie. If you don’t want to fuck me just say so.” 

Richie’s eyes bug out of his head. “Eddie, I want quite literally nothing more in this world than to fuck you, and I think the boner you keep grinding on should be proof enough of that,” he says earnestly. “But maybe… maybe not here? In the town responsible for literally all of our trauma? And in the room partially responsible for my most recent neuroses?” 

Eddie glances around, considering. “Yeah… okay, you have a point.” 

“I’ve wanted this as long as I can fucking remember, Eddie,” Richie says quietly. He traces the crease between his eyebrows, thumbs over his bottom lip. “Even when I _couldn’t _remember you. I want to do this right, I don’t want this to be like, a quick last ditch fuck because you _incorrectly _think you’re going to die tomorrow.” 

“It wouldn’t be that to me, Richie. Never.” He smiles, kisses Richie’s cheeks, then his lips. “Lucky for you, I’m exhausted anyway, so you’re off the hook.” 

“Off the— Eddie, I will blow you _right_ now if that’s what it takes for you to believe me, don’t fucking test me. I literally had a sex dream about you only two nights ago.” 

“Shut up and get under the covers,” Eddie says, pressing one last searing kiss to his lips before climbing off his lap. 

They settle under the comforter, and Eddie cuddles right up to Richie immediately. This time, Richie feels no shame pressing a kiss to his hair, and noses down to kiss his forehead too just for the hell of it. 

“I love you, Eddie Spaghetti Kaspbrak,” he says softly. “And I’m going to tell you everyday for the rest of our lives, so get ready. I’m gonna annoy the shit out of you with my love.” 

He can feel Eddie drifting off, his breaths becoming deep and even already. Still, Eddie laughs sleepily, nestles closer. 

“You already do, dumbass. Love you,” Eddie murmurs into his neck. 

* * *

Richie dreams of Eddie. He dreams of Eddie, young and carefree, trailing behind him in a room full of water, chattering excitedly about something Richie can’t follow. He hears Eddie squeal at the penguins waddling in their enclosure, sees him press his nose to the glass, turn to beam at Richie. He dreams of Eddie in the quarry, angry scowl on his face as Richie approaches to push him under, of feet kicking at his shins and hands slipping on his shoulders. 

He dreams of the ocean, of being engulfed by the deep blue water, the weight of it pressing heavy around his shoulders the same way his grief wrapped around them for months. Eddie floats nearby, but he doesn’t look frightened. He smiles, reaches for Richie, air bubbling out of his nostrils. Richie reaches too, but he’s too far. The water recedes, and there’s Eddie again on solid ground, young and happy and laughing at something he’s said. He calls something out to Richie, but it’s muffled, impossible to understand. Richie walks towards him, but he blinks and Eddie disappears. Richie can’t remember what he was looking for in the first place. 

He turns back around, movements sluggish and difficult. There’s Eddie from a week ago, eyes wide and haunted, staring vacantly at the blue walls that envelop them. Richie calls out his name once, twice, but Eddie doesn’t respond. A shadow looms over them from behind. Richie looks up, and a whale swims over their heads, darkness obscuring everything around them, shrouding the room in inky twilight. The whale blows water out of its blowhole, and it cascades over their heads like rain, triggers a rush of it like a breaking dam around their feet. He calls out to Eddie again, panicked, but Eddie is frozen, unresponsive. As he watches, the whale changes, shifts into a giant sea turtle. He inhales sharply, ambling clumsily over to where Eddie is, but Eddie is gone. 

The dream changes. 

He’s nowhere. He’s still surrounded by darkness, but he can feel, down to his fucking bones, that he’s alone this time. He blinks, and tries to force his eyes to adjust, but there’s no source of light anywhere that he can see. He takes a step, then another; it’s easier this time, the dreamlike lethargy rescinded. He hears something in the distance, and strains to listen. He walks towards the sound, and after a few moments recognizes the opening chords of ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ by The Beach Boys playing on repeat. It’s only the first five seconds, echoing endlessly in the dark, and it’s possibly the creepiest fucking thing he’s ever experienced, including Pennywise.

“What the fuck,” Richie mutters to himself. 

A shimmer of lights appear overhead, highlighting a path. Richie follows it, and finally the song starts playing in earnest, still echoing in the eeriest fucking way. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to listen to the song the same way again. A shiver goes down his spine, and the hair on his arms stands straight up when he comes across a figure huddled on the ground ahead of him. 

_‘In the kind of world where we belong…’_

“Hello?” Richie calls. 

_‘When we can say goodnight and stay together…’_

The person doesn’t respond. Richie shuffles closer, and sees they have dark hair, and an ancient looking pair of headphones strapped over their ears. Richie gets close enough to hover over their shoulder and sees they’re cradling an old walkman in their lap. 

_‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we could wake up, in the morning when the day is new…’_

Richie reaches down to tap their shoulder. The moment his hand touches them, he feels a phantom tap on his own shoulder and nearly falls on top of the other person in horror. He whips around, stumbling over his own feet, sucking in harsh, panicked breaths and looking around frantically for the source. 

“_Jesus_ _fucking fuck,_ what the _fuck_ was that?” 

“What the _fuck_ dude, you scared the shit out of me!” 

Richie wheels back around and nearly collapses again, heart slamming against his ribs. He’s looking at himself, age thirteen or fourteen, holding the walkman out like a weapon. His younger self removes the headphones, and the music accordingly stops. Richie shivers, head to fucking toe, and they get caught in the world’s freakiest staring contest. 

“Alright, as enjoyable and fucking disturbing as this has been, I’m ready to wake the fuck up now,” Richie says. He squeezes his eyes shut, but when he opens them he’s still staring at a pair of thick glasses and gangly limbs holding the walkman threateningly. 

“What are you talking about?” his doppleganger repeats, frowning in confusion. He hastily stuffs something in his pocket, and Richie only sees the corner of it but he knows instantly what it is. He used to spend an embarrassing amount of time curled up on his bed in the exact same fashion, listening to the Beach Boys and sullenly staring at it. 

“I’m ready to wake up,” Richie repeats louder. “This is freaky as fuck, how do I—“ he pinches his arm, slaps his cheek once, then harder when still nothing happens. “How the fuck do I wake up?” 

Young Richie laughs. “You’re not dreaming dipshit,” he says arrogantly. He looks him up and down. “You’re not supposed to be here though… why _are_ you here?” 

“Where the fuck is ‘here’?” 

“_Here_,” young Richie repeats emphatically, like that explains everything. “We’re smarter than that, come on. Figure it the fuck out.” 

Richie thinks, and with a jolt that nearly sends him to his knees, he remembers. He remembers Eddie describing where he went after his death, how he saw himself as a teenager, the weird lights. His heart starts hammering again, and surely that alone means he can’t be…

“Am I fucking dead?” Richie demands, stepping closer to himself. “I swear, if I died the same fucking night Eddie kissed me I’m gonna—“ 

“Woah, Eddie kissed you?” he squeals, and Richie winces at how high his voice is. “Holy shit, how was it? Did you cry? I think— no, I _know_ I’d cry if Eds kissed me.” 

“I— that’s not the point,” Richie interrupts. He has to remind himself that this isn’t actually happening, that there’s more pressing issues than giving his younger self the ‘it gets better’ talk. Given current events he’s not even sure that’s true. “The _point_ is that I need to know if I’m dead right fucking now.” 

Young Richie rolls his eyes. “That’s all anyone ever asks. God fucking forbid anyone ever wanting to know how _I’m_ doing, oh no, Richie can go fuck himself I guess—“

“Oh my god, if you don’t shut up and give me some fucking answers—“

“Shh!” he’s told suddenly. He glances down at the hand held out to shush him, thinks seriously about slapping it away, and then, “He’s here.” 

“Who?” 

The shadow emerges, wholly reminiscent of the one from his dream, the real dream. He looks up, sees nothing but black, gawking as it passes. There’s no warmth here to begin with, but he feels himself go cold all the same. He glances back down and finds his younger counterpart is gone, disappeared so abruptly its as though Richie imagined him. 

“_You are early._” 

The voice rips through him. His whole body shudders from the bone trembling quake of it. He wants to cover his ears, but it manifests from everywhere; Richie doesn’t know where to direct his gaze. 

“I’m—“ 

“_You are early_,” it repeats. “_There is a piece of you here, but it is not time._” 

“A piece of— what the f—“ 

“_You must leave_.” 

Light sparks over him, glowing brighter and brighter until he has to shield his eyes, and then he feels his knees go weak, vision tunneling, and he falls…

He lands in water, feels it seep into his clothes, hears it rush in his ears. He paddles his arms frantically and surfaces, choking and sputtering. His surroundings are blurred; he rubs water out of his eyes and still can’t see shit, and realizes his glasses are gone. His legs kick out experimentally and he finds he can stand. Kneeling down, his hands grope around, sifting through wet sand and rocks to find his glasses. 

“You know what. Eddie would have hated this guys.” 

Richie freezes, rising slowly, and his shifts attention to the left. He just barely makes out Ben’s torso, gaze cast down at the water. 

“What? Cleaning ourselves with dirty water?” 

Bill’s voice comes from his right. He looks around and sees the rest of them, blurry as fuck but real, and his stomach drops. 

“No,” he gasps. No one hears him, no one reacts. “_Fuck_ no, please, come on—“ 

“Yeah,” Ben answers. Richie can hear the smile in his voice, feels the familiar urge to hit him. Eddie’s only been gone five fucking minutes, for fuck’s sake, how can he even _think_ of smiling, of fond remembrances—

“He’d be telling us we’d get streptococcal something.” 

Bev is fully smiling, and Richie wants to scream, so he does, loud and anguished. Still no one reacts, continuing on as though he’s not there, as invisible as Eddie. 

“Yeah, but he would have made us laugh though.” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“He’d be looking out for us. The way he always was.” 

Richie screams again, voice cracking into a sob that sounds like Eddie’s name. Eddie, who only ever wanted to keep them safe. Eddie, who they left alone in the dark, in a miserable filthy hell where he didn’t belong. He falls heavily into the water, submerges himself, continues to scream, feels the water fill his mouth and nose, feels his throat burn and his lungs sear in his chest and screams anyway. He screams until his breath is gone, and just as everything starts to go black, he’s suddenly above water again as though it never happened. 

“Isn’t that right Richie?” 

His hands clench into fists. There’s a cracking sound, something pressing sharp into his palm, and he glances down to see his glasses clutched tight in his fingers. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Richie breathes. He doesn’t put the glasses on, doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want any part of this. “Shut the _fuck_ _up_, Big Bill.” 

“Isn’t that right Richie?” Bill repeats. 

“_Shut_ _up!_” Richie seethes. “God shut up, don’t— don’t fucking talk about him, don’t you fucking dare—“

His rage melts into ragged sobs, and right on cue the others move in, their arms reaching for him as one. His shoulders, his arms, his hands. Bill presses his face into his bicep, Bev lays her head on his shoulder, and he collapses, gives in to the cloying grief constricting his throat. He suffocates in their embrace, doesn’t struggle when they pull him under, when the water fills his lungs for the second time—

Richie jerks awake with a shout. He inhales deep lungfuls of air, chest heaving. He blinks at his surroundings, sees the familiar green wallpaper, sees their open suitcase, his clothes haphazard and messy next to Eddie’s, neatly folded. An arm blindly reaches out to his right and finds empty sheets, and this time Eddie isn’t sitting on the window bench. 

“Eddie?” 

A wet cough answers. He picks up his glasses and heads towards the sound. The bathroom light is on. Eddie’s back is to him when he steps in the doorway, hunched over the bathtub. 

“Eds? What’s up, still can’t sleep?” 

Wordlessly, Eddie straightens. Richie sees the blood then, bright scarlet on the porcelain, and his chest constricts painfully. Eddie turns around, and there’s blood staining his lips.

“Eddie,” Richie gasps. He pulls Eddie towards him; he sways in Richie’s arms, looking lost and dead-eyed. 

“Richie,” he says weakly. 

“Eddie, no, no come on,” Richie pleads, panic reaching a crescendo in his chest. He holds Eddie’s face in his hands and forces eye contact, hands shaking so badly Eddie’s face trembles. “Come on, what’s wrong, do you— we need to go to the hospital, okay baby? Let’s sit you down, and I’ll— I’ll get Bill, or Bev, they can drive us—“

“Richie,” Eddie repeats. He looks at Richie sadly, apologetically, and it tears through him, splintering him apart. “Richie, I’m—“

“No. No, shut up Eds, don’t talk right now,” Richie says firmly. 

Eddie’s eyes track down to his own chest, and Richie’s heart stops. 

Blood is pooling across his shirt, spreading all the way to his sides, bleeding into his shirtsleeves. 

“No, no, fuck, no, _Eddie_—“ 

He presses his hands into Eddie’s chest to stem the flow, but it’s useless. It spreads, sticky and warm, and Richie’s hands are drenched in red in seconds. Eddie wavers, and Richie catches him before he falls, lowers him gently to the floor. 

“Eddie, baby, no, _please— _Bev! Mike!” He screams, cradling Eddie’s head in his hands. Eddie’s eyes have slipped shut, and he shakes him forcefully. “Eddie, wake up— Bill! Help!” 

No one comes. Eddie bleeds out in his arms while Richie sobs into his lifeless shoulder for the second fucking time, and he's so hysterical he almost laughs. 

“No, this can’t be— you can’t be— this is a dream, it’s just a fucking nightmare,” Richie cries, rocking Eddie back and forth in his arms. “It’s a dream, Bev would have heard us, they’re right next door, wake up, wake up, wake the fuck _up_—“ 

Richie jerks awake with a shout, inhaling deep lungfuls of air, chest heaving. He blinks Eddie’s bloodstained chest out of his vision, leans forward to press the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to push the image out by force. 

He’s awake this time. He feels solid, his movements easy and normal. He feels the ever present ache in his forty year old joints, and when he pinches his arm he feels the sharp sting of it this time. His hands are trembling with residual shock from what has been, without question, his weirdest and worst fucking night since Eddie died. 

He takes a deep breath and looks around, exhaling when he sees he’s where he expected to be. Room five of the townhouse, Derry, Maine. It’s dawn, judging by the sunlight slowly crawling into the room. The room looks the same, as far as he can make out. He feels for his glasses and slides them on, bringing the room into focus. 

Heart in his throat, he slowly reaches to his right, eyes sliding down to confirm his dread. 

Eddie is gone. 

He’s out of the bed in a heartbeat, searching every corner of the small room, even peering underneath the bed. He checks the balcony, the bathroom. He wrenches open the door and thunders downstairs, seeking out every nook and cranny as he goes and finding them empty. The bar is deserted, as is the lobby, the downstairs bathroom. He throws open the front door to find an empty porch, a vacant parking lot. 

“Mike!” He screams when he’s back inside, bare feet pounding up the stairs. He finds Mike’s door and hammers the door frantically. “Mike! _Open the fucking door, Mike_!” 

Mike opens it ten seconds later, looking rattled. Ben and Bev also peek their heads out, followed by Bill one door over, and Bev rushes to Richie’s side immediately when she sees the look on his face. 

“Richie, honey, what—“

“Eddie’s gone,” Richie chokes. He swallows around the bile in his throat, and a wrecked sob cracks it’s way into his voice. “He’s gone.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry :( 
> 
> i've edited and reworked this chapter so many times now that i have no idea how i feel about it anymore but hopefully you at least liked the one good part?? pls dont snipe me
> 
> [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strap in we got another long one folks!
> 
> cws for this chapter: minor dissociation, description of horror (just a flashback from a pennywise moment in the first movie, nothing worse than that), descriptions of injuries and blood, and discussion of eddie’s abuse. again its all mild but take care of yourself. i’m happy to give more details if you’re worried about it before you read, just shoot me a message.
> 
> also, not at all necessary to your enjoyment, but i listened to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RH3N_PHu6Aw) pretty much on repeat as i wrote this chapter. and while editing. and while uploading. it's a lot.

_Wind howls against Richie’s window, making everything creak and snap. It’s the worst blizzard they’ve had in years, and the outside world is nothing but a swirling white maelstrom. It would be creepy, but its pretty much the exact environment he’s going for tonight. The storm heightens the thrill of reading his illegal copy of The Silence of the Lambs, amplifies every one of his overactive nerves, makes his heart rate pick up with every new page. His mother has already confiscated it from him twice; he’d managed to smuggle it back again after dinner tonight, and the storm is exactly the encouragement he needed to finally finish chapter sixteen. _

_All the lights in his bedroom are off. He’s huddled under the covers with his flashlight, and is so deep in the world of Hannibal Lecter that he yelps and drops the flashlight when there’s three sudden, piercing bangs on his window. He scrambles to pick it up off the floor, still partially hidden under the sheets, trying to catch his breath. Slowly he peeks out, aiming the flashlight at his window, and has to suppress another scream when he sees something flesh colored and vaguely human shaped pressed against his window. _

_“Holy— _ ** _Eds_ ** _?” _

_Eddie is pressed miserably against his window, snow swirling around his head and getting caught in his dark hair. Richie hastens to climb out of bed and rushes to the window, unlatching it with fingers that are still trembling a little. _

_“Took you fucking long enough,” Eddie snarls. His voice is gravelly and weak; he sounds like shit. _

_“You sound like shit,” Richie tells him, stepping back and helping Eddie over the windowsill. _

_Eddie coughs in response, a harsh wet thing that seems to start all the way in his fucking stomach and rattle through his chest. He sways a little once he’s safely in Richie’s room, and Richie turns on the light to get a better look at him. He’s sweating, despite it being negative ten outside, wrapped in the thickest coat and scarf Richie has ever seen. One of his mittens has come off, and his exposed fingers look a little purple. His cheeks are sallow, bags prominent under his thirteen year old eyes, and a visible drip of snot is slowly trickling its way out of his left nostril. _

_Richie snickers, despite the fact that Eddie is obviously dying right in front of him. “Dude, what are you doing here? You look half fucking dead. We thought you_ **_were_ **_dead, we haven’t seen you in like a week!” _

_Eddie doesn’t answer, choosing instead to brush past him and commandeer Richie’s bed. He sits heavily at the end of it, coat swallowing him up and making him look even smaller than usual. _

_“Can I stay here tonight?” Eddie asks. His voice is tiny, and he sounds exhausted. Richie immediately changes course. _

_“Of course, Spaghetti Head,” he says without hesitation. Eddie sniffs in response. “Lemme get my mom, she might still have some of my medicine leftover—“ _

_“_ ** _No_ ** _," Eddie says emphatically. “No medicine, please Rich, it doesn’t— it makes me feel worse.” _

_“How could it make you feel worse?” _

_“I don’t know,” Eddie answers, voice small and sad. “Whatever my mom gives me, it just. It doesn’t ever fucking work.” _

_Eddie shifts uncomfortably, and starts unbuttoning his coat. He peels it off and breathes a sigh of relief; his shirt is sticking to him, he’s sweat so much. _

_“Jesus, I think— you might need a fucking hospital, Eds.” _

_“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says automatically, but Richie can tell his heart isn’t in it. He’s not even really listening. He’s digging around in the fanny pack around his waist, and takes a pull of his inhaler when he finds it. _

_The last time Eddie was sick, it was as if it was the end of the goddamn world. It was just a tiny head cold, one that had also made its way from Georgie to Bill to Richie to Eddie. It only lasted a few days, but the way he carried on about it, you’d think he had one foot in the grave. He’d hid it from his mom that time, choosing instead to spend the three nights at Bill’s or Richie’s. Richie is pretty sure Eddie told them at least once every fifteen minutes that if his fever got worse than 101, he needed to get to a hospital stat. It’s a testament to how sick he is now that he doesn’t seem bothered that he’s moments from death, that he hasn’t already demanded Richie call an ambulance. _

_Richie marches forward and lays the back of his hand against Eddie’s forehead, wincing at how hot it is. “Fuck, Eddie, I’m serious, your head feels like you stuck it in the goddamn oven.” _

_“I’m fine, I just need to sleep,” Eddie insists. He sags a little, pressing into Richie’s hand. “Mom won’t leave me alone long enough to sleep, she keeps forcing fucking pills down my throat every two hours. And I need a shower, I feel fucking disgusting.” _

_He doesn’t wait for Richie’s response to that. He crawls out of bed and traipses to Richie’s bathroom without another word. Richie hesitates for a few minutes, debating whether or not he should call 911, or at least get his mother involved. He compromises by sneaking into her bathroom and grabbing aspirin and cough syrup. He then grabs a glass of water and a cold compress from the kitchen, somehow avoiding drawing attention from the TV show his parents are watching next door. He stops by the laundry room on the way back and grabs the first clean t-shirt he can find, as well as his cleanest looking pair of athletic shorts. Eddie will kill him, flu or not, if he tries to offer him a pair of his underwear. _

_Eddie is back on the bed when Richie returns, wrapped in a giant towel and half asleep against the headboard. _

_“Hey, change into these,” Richie says. He pushes the clothes into Eddie’s hands. “They’re clean, swear. Fresh from the laundry.” _

_Eddie just nods and takes them without complaint, which is maybe the most concerning thing that’s happened since he got here. He quietly takes the clothes into the bathroom to change, leaving a trail of water in his wake. When he reappears a minute later, Richie has pulled the covers down and pats the mattress. _

_“Alright, in you go. No need to fret, Dr. Tozier is here, have a seat sir.” _

_Eddie rolls his eyes but complies. Richie gets to work, pressing the cold compress to his forehead and tugging the covers up to his chin. He grabs a random notebook off the floor and lets his glasses drop to his nose, perusing the blank cover. He clears his throat, preparing to use his best British voice._

_“Now, says here in your chart you have ‘Rancid Fart Disease’, is that right Mr. Spaghetti?” _

_“Richieee,” Eddie gripes, but there’s a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, so Richie continues. _

_“No need to be ashamed, Mr. Spaghetti sir, it’s a perfectly normal condition, I assure you,” Richie says, exaggerating the voice even more. Eddie giggles, just once, short and hoarse, but it’s enough to spur him along. “Unfortunately, the treatment is rather painful. I will need to sit on your stomach for at least six to eight hours to dispel all of the rancid gases from your gut. We’ll get you suited up in a hazmat suit to deal with the smell, don’t worry.” _

_“Beep beep Richie!” Eddie cries, giggling harder, and it turns into hiccups when Richie climbs on top of him, settling his legs over Eddie’s stomach rather than letting his full weight crush him. Eddie laughs and struggles to kick him off. Richie presses his legs down, carefully boxing him in. _

_“Treatment will begin now, just try to relax, Edward,” Richie says over Eddie’s laughter. The laughs eventually evolve into a miserable coughing fit. Eddie has to sit up with the force of it, and reaches out and holds onto Richie’s shins as he coughs through it. _

_“Jeez, Eds,” Richie says when he’s calmed down and laid back against Richie’s pillow. The cold compress dislodged during his fit, and Richie reaches down to put it back on Eddie’s forehead. “Gonna germ up my whole room.” _

_“You germed me first,” Eddie retorts, sniffling pathetically. _

_“How pissed is your mom gonna be when she can’t find you?” _

_Eddie closes his eyes, and stares straight at the ceiling when he opens them again. “Apocalyptic. But I couldn’t stay there, Richie, she…“ _

_He doesn’t finish the thought, but Richie knows well enough by now. He’s seen Mrs. K force feed him pills, and practically cram his inhaler down his throat when there’s the slightest hint of pollen in the air. He can’t imagine how she must be with an actual illness, the way she must hover and blame, and ply Eddie with medication that probably isn’t even fucking real, just so she can keep up the illusion of taking care of her precious, delicate Eddie bear. So she can make Eddie feel weak and afraid. _

_He’s angry for a minute, furious in that helpless kind of way, wishing he and Eddie were old enough to just fucking run away. He’s strongly considering going to the living room and begging his parents to let Eddie live with them when Eddie is struck with another coughing fit. This one is bad enough that Eddie sits up quickly, doubling over and coughing into his knees. Richie scoots over to place a hand on his back, can feel Eddie’s shoulders tense as the coughs wrack through him. Richie feels uneasy again, like he’s way out of his depth. _

_“Eds, I’m serious about the hospital,” Richie says quietly when he’s done. Eddie shakes his head, still hunched over. _

_"No fucking way Richie,” Eddie says. “If you make me go there I’ll never talk to you again.” _

_“Harsh, I’m just trying to save your life, Eds,” Richie says. “I don’t think I could live without your cute little face, Spaghetti Head!” _

_“Then don’t take me to the fucking hospital,” Eddie responds, leaning back at last. He relaxes against the pillows and closes his eyes. _

_“Hang on, don’t go to sleep yet!” Richie says. He leans across Eddie for the two bottles, and sees Eddie’s eyes widen. “It’s just aspirin, Spageds, and some cough syrup. Promise.” _

_Eddie eyes it warily. Richie holds it closer for him to inspect. “I wouldn’t hurt you Eddie, you know that, right?” _

_Eddie looks at him then. His eyes are wide and glassy from the fever, but they seem to shine a little more as he looks at Richie, frowning like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. _

_“I know, Richie,” Eddie says quietly. He looks at him for another long moment and sits up, holding his hand out. Richie grins. _

_“Right, cheerio, one capful coming right up matey!” Eddie giggles again while Richie pours out the cough syrup. He’s right there with the glass of water when Eddie manages to throw it back, only gagging a little at the taste. He gulps down half the glass of water after, and takes the two aspirin Richie offers. _

_Both medications successfully administered, Richie coaxes Eddie back under the covers with the help of his doctor voice. Eddie’s eyes droop immediately, and he doesn’t even complain when Richie presses the compress back to his forehead. _

_“Thank you, Richie,” Eddie slurs as he falls asleep. Warmth curls in Richie’s chest, and he quietly creeps out of the room to let him sleep. _

* * *

_Eddie watches Richie close the bedroom door. The image fades away, leaving him alone to stare at the now empty curtain. _

_He should be furious. He should be heartbroken, he should be desperate to get back, he should be panicked. He should be tearing the veil to shreds, screaming Richie’s name, fighting his way back. _

_He’s nothing. _

_And it’s getting harder to remember Richie’s name anyway._

_He sits down and waits, facing the veil with his arms around his pulled up knees. _

_He didn’t get to see memories through the veil last time. It’s poetic, somehow, that this particular memory is the first one he’s shown. It was the first time he realized that he loved Richie. He didn’t know how he loved him, didn’t understand what it meant at the time, but he felt it still. It’s poetic, seeing it juxtaposed with his most recent memory of actually, finally telling him. It’s poetic, he repeats to himself. It’s ironic. It’s fucked up. It’s unfair. _

_Richie’s face becomes harder to picture the further away he gets from the memory. He can’t pinpoint the details of Richie’s features anymore, can only see dark curly hair and glasses. _

_He can’t recall Richie’s last name._

_He touches the faded decal on his shirt and can feel his chest solid beneath it; its still whole, still healed over. The veil shimmers, and a new memory is visible just beyond, shapes slowly coming into focus. _

_He waits. _

* * *

It takes twenty-five minutes for Richie to calm down. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, sheets still rumpled from where Eddie was sleeping in them, the only proof that what happened before his ass backwards dream was real. His hand is fisted in Eddie’s pillow, trying to hold onto the last piece of him that he has. Bev is next to him, holding his free hand, while Bill massages his shoulders behind him. Mike is scouring the room for any sort of clue as to what happened, and Ben is off in Richie’s car, making sure Eddie isn’t wandering the streets somewhere. 

It’s pointless. Richie can feel in his fucking marrow that Eddie’s not on this plane anymore, something he’s pretty sure he yelled somewhat incoherently at the four of them twenty minutes ago. 

“B-better?” Bill asks quietly, hands pausing on his shoulders. 

Richie shrugs, says hoarsely, “No, but I appreciate the effort. Think you missed your calling, Big Bill.” 

Bill squeezes his shoulders one more time and rubs a soothing hand over his back. He crawls off the bed and joins Mike, who’s currently inspecting the bathroom. He’d asked Richie to recount every part of his endless dream last night, and is following up on every detail, though Richie’s putting his foot down if he tries to make Richie go anywhere near the fucking quarry. 

“I knew this would happen,” Richie says quietly to Bev. Her hand tightens; she runs the other through the curls at the nape of his neck. “I knew it, it was too fucking good to be true, just when we—“ 

He stops, jaw clenching painfully. He’d kept the details of what happened before the dream to himself. He can’t stomach the thought of saying out loud that Eddie had kissed him, and told him he loved him, not least because he’s starting to wonder if it was even real. 

“We’ll figure it out, Richie. We’ll get him back,” Bev says soothingly. “Losers stick together.” 

He would almost believe her, if it weren’t for the tight line of her mouth giving her away; she’s just as worried as he is. Richie manages a small smile anyway, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. Mike and Bill reappear in the bedroom, and Richie can tell by the grim looks on their faces they haven’t found anything useful. 

“I can’t make sense of it, Richie, I’m sorry,” Mike says, stricken. He looks on the verge of tears, as if this is all somehow his fault. 

“W-we should go ahead with the r-ritual,” Bill says. He has a similar expression of grief, eyebrows drawn close together. “It’s the only option we have.” 

“Yes,” Bev agrees. “What do we need to do?” 

Mike hesitates. “We need… something of Eddie. Something he would have touched, worn, used, anything like that.”

“We have his whole suitcase, we can use something in there,” Bev offers, but Mike shakes his head. 

“It’s not that simple. It has to be something from… before. Before his death.” 

“Shit,” Bev swears. “Mike, everything from before must be gone. His mother is dead, and everyone who knew him thought he was gone.” 

“I know,” Mike agrees, while Richie grits his teeth. He addresses Richie when he speaks next. “I’m so sorry Richie. I didn’t want to bring it up last night because I thought we’d have to scavenge something from his mother’s house, and I knew he’d hate that idea.” 

Richie huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, he would,” he agrees. 

“I guess w-we could still go over there and look?” Bill suggests. 

“No need,” Richie says, feeling slightly queasy. He drops Bev’s hand and walks over to his open suitcase, digs around in a side pocket. He tucks the glasses into Mike’s hand on his way back to his spot on the bed. “Will that work?” 

Mike examines them. “Rich, these are yours.” 

Richie nods. He clenches his fists, can still feel the phantom sensation of glass cracking in his hand. “I know,” he says, voice clipped. “Those are the ones I was wearing when he— when Eds…”

Understanding washes over Mike’s face, then Bill’s. Richie continues in a tight voice, “I’d guess there’s still some um.” He coughs around the ever present lump. “There’s probably still some of his fucking blood in the cracks. So, basically as much of Eddie as we could hope for.” 

Mike squints, holding them closer to his face. He nods after a moment and plucks a tissue from the desk, wrapping them up and carefully tucking them into his pocket. 

“This should work Richie,” Mike says softly. “Thanks.”

There’s footsteps on the landing. Ben comes into the room, and Richie can tell with one glance that he didn’t find Eddie. 

“No luck,” Ben announces anyway, looking windswept and distraught. “Anything here?” 

“We’re going to do the ritual, see if we can get some answers,” Bev answers. “Do we need anything else? When do we do it?” 

“I have everything else we need. We do it— at dusk,” Mike responds hesitantly, wincing when Richie rounds on him. 

“Dusk?” Richie squawks. He’s on his feet, hovering in Mike’s space. “That’s like, twelve fucking hours from now Mike!” 

“I’m sorry Rich, it has to be dusk,” Mike says apologetically. “We run a greater chance of it not working at all if we don’t wait. The barrier between worlds is thinnest at dusk. I’m sorry, I hate it as much as you.” 

“Is that even— what the fuck does that even _mean_? Fuck,” Richie breathes. He turns, runs his hands through his hair, and the tears that have been threatening all morning finally spill over. “There’s — there’s gotta be something else we can try in the meantime? A fucking Ouija board, or something?” 

“I'm sorry, Rich. Really, I am.”

A shaky, hoarse sound ripples it’s way out of his throat. Mike steps forward and wraps him in a hug, and Richie gives in, collapses and clutches at Mike’s shirt and lets the tears fall. When he pulls away, Mike looks teary eyed too, and Richie absolutely can’t fucking deal with that on top of his own anguish. He has to leave. He brushes past Ben and Bill and into the hallway, ignoring the voices calling after him, taking the stairs two at a time. He doesn’t stop until he’s outside, and keeps walking until he reaches trees and disappears within them. He collapses against the trunk of an oak, sliding down the trunk and letting his head fall into his waiting hands. He stays there for at least an hour, trying to catch his breath around sobs that sound like Eddie’s name. 

* * *

_Eddie’s watched hundreds of memories at this point. Maybe thousands. He lost count a long time ago. He’s watched what has to be his entire fucking childhood, all through the lens of the wrinkled shroud before him. _

_Richie features in almost all of them. He watches the two of them, young and carefree, biking together to the quarry, to the movies, the arcade. He watches Richie buy them ice cream, and smush it against Eddie’s cheek while he squeals. He watches Richie throw an arm around his shoulders and pull him close when he shivers through a snowstorm, taking his hat off his own head and tucking it over Eddie’s ears. He watches Richie scream at Henry Bowers while Eddie picks himself up off the ground, knees and elbows scraped to hell. He watches himself lunge at Bowers when he breaks Richie’s glasses, and then sees the two of them clean up each other’s cuts, pressed close together in Richie’s bathroom. He watches himself squeeze into the clubhouse hammock next to Richie, press his feet against his side, and smile all flush-warm when Richie’s hand rests on his ankle. _

_He watches them get older, sees the way their gazes start to linger, the way they cling to one another, touching each other every chance they get. He sees himself buckle his seatbelt with a pointed look at Richie as he flies down the highway in his new truck, sees Richie laugh and throw a reassuring hand on Eddie’s knee like it’s nothing. He sees the Losers huddled around a campfire, making s’mores and drinking stolen beer, Eddie pressed close to Richie’s side as they stargaze. He sees them in Richie’s basement watching TV, sees himself on the floor, leaning back against Richie’s shins. He sees Richie shoot up, sees his shoulders become broader, sees the way girls eyes start to linger as well, drawn to Richie’s infectious playfulness and wit. He sees himself at sixteen, storming away from Bill’s house and fighting furious, bewildered tears, all because Richie had kissed Lucy Simmons while playing seven minutes in heaven. He’d emerged with the deepest blush Eddie had ever seen, hair wild, looking like he’d just had the time of his life. He grinned sheepishly at Eddie, and Eddie had stormed out immediately, not caring that Richie was his ride home. He watches Richie try to make it up to him with comic books and the answers to his algebra homework, distraught and just as confused as Eddie. He watches himself soften, and lean into Richie’s conciliatory hug, sees his fingers tighten in Richie’s collar. _

_He sees his rejection letter from Stanford, and Richie’s crestfallen face. Sees Richie start yelling, threatening to tear his own letter into pieces, because _ ** _fuck_ ** _ California, he’ll just go to NYU with Eddie, except he can’t, he missed the deadline because he was sure California was a fucking given, and how could they not let Eddie in? But Eddie has no such questions. Richie has always been smarter than Eddie, has always had a brighter future, and it’s fine, he says, they’ll see each other on holidays, and maybe even summers. How was he to know that they would never willingly set foot in Derry again, that it wouldn’t matter anyway, because the moment they pass the city limits Richie’s name becomes harder and harder to remember. His features blur with every mile that separates him from his hometown, and before long Eddie can’t recall much about it at all, or about the friends who made it bearable, the friends he loved more than anything, the friends he would die for. Or the boy he swore he’d know for the rest of his life, the one he swore he’d remember forever, the first and only love of his life — all forgotten as simply and inconsequentially as leaving an umbrella behind after a storm, when the sky is clear and blue again. _

_It happens with every one. Just as the edges of the memory start to fade to black, so does his memory of Richie, and the Losers, even his own mother. He forgets Richie’s name first, has to concentrate to keep it at the forefront of his mind, and even then he can only hold onto the first initial, if anything at all. He stops being able to picture Richie’s face clearly, until he sees him again in the next memory and it all comes rushing back. It would make his head hurt, if headaches were possible anymore. Instead, he just quietly feels the ache in his chest expand, fissuring sharply when he can’t remember who is making him feel this way, healing over again when he sees Richie’s bright face beaming at the Eddie in his memory moments later. _

_Now, he sees someone struggling to climb into Eddie’s window, and even without knowing his name he knows what’s coming. This is the one he remembers most distinctly, the one that even Pennywise couldn’t completely erase. The person finally manages to fall into Eddie’s room, displacing several small boxes neatly packed with Eddie’s socks. It’s lucky he didn’t kick over the ones marked fragile, or Mrs. K would’ve been on them faster than they could blink. Richie’s ridiculously tall body comes into focus, and with a sweet relief Eddie remembers his name again. _

_“Richie,” he says softly to himself, the way he always does, just as Richie approaches Eddie’s bed with an easy grin. _

* * *

Richie has no idea how he passes the time. The hours between discovering his empty bed and setting out for Neibolt are a hazy blur in his mind when he tries to think back on it. He knows the others try to distract him, try to get him to engage in the planning, or at least in some sort of conversation, but it doesn’t work. Mostly he sits around the townhouse, trying not to wonder if Eddie’s okay, or think of where he could be, and thinking of nothing but. 

Finally, Mike comes to gently pull him up from his spot at the bar, where he’s been staring into an untouched and watery glass of scotch for the better part of two hours. 

“It’s time, Rich,” Mike says. 

Richie shakes his head to clear it, finds it’s still fuzzy and weirdly blank. He struggles to stand up, and shakily joins the rest of the Losers outside gathered around Mike’s rental car. Richie climbs in, squeezing between Ben and Bev in the backseat, and thinks to himself they won’t have room for Eddie on the way back. He says nothing. 

Bev holds his hand the whole way to Neibolt. It’s a short drive, and before he’s really ready for it, they’re pulling up to the curb of the destroyed Well House. They all just stare for a long moment, no one making any moves to leave the relative safety of the car. 

“Come on,” Bill says at last, determined. He yanks the door open, Mike and Ben following suit. And then he’s climbing out behind Ben, and he’s right fucking there, staring at the place responsible for all his fucking nightmares. 

“Jesus,” Richie mutters when they’re all out. “Jesus Christ, we’re really here. _Again_.” 

“Third time’s the charm?” Ben says nervously, looking pale. 

“Let’s hope so,” Mike says, coming around from the trunk with a handful of supplies. He clenches his jaw, shares a look with Bill, and then steps forward towards what remains of the Well House. 

They follow Mike. He leads them through the charred and broken wood to the center of the destruction, stopping when they reach the center. 

“Okay, let’s do this,” Mike says without preamble. “The idea is to try and summon him as closely to It’s lair as possible,” he explains. He and Bill are making a pyre from the surrounding wood, finding the most tenable pieces among the debris. “Ideally, we’d go through the sewers and do it directly in the lair, but Bill and I checked and it’s all blocked off. This will have to do.” 

Ben helps them gather more wood. Richie vaguely thinks he should probably help too, but he’s barely present; he feels odd, disconnected from reality, from what’s happening. He feels like he’s watching himself from a distance, like he’s not even in his own body. The only thing keeping him somewhat grounded is Bev’s hand in his. He tries to focus on it, but it’s like trying to catch a cloud, keeps slipping through his fingers, and he just watches placidly as the others work around him. 

Mike, Bill, and Ben finish building the pyre. He thinks he hears Bev ask a question about the fire spreading; Bill says something in response, but Richie barely hears it, can’t recall the words that are said the moment they’ve passed Bill’s lips. His gaze is directed beyond their group, towards a strange shimmering in the air that he can see just beyond the ruins of the house. 

Bill lights the fire, and Richie’s attention is redirected back to what’s happening when it flares to life. He watches Mike throw in what he thinks is some kind of sage from the Shokopiwah, and then reach in his pocket for the glasses. With a determined look at Richie, he tosses the glasses in the flames. Richie feels a piercing sense of loss; it starts in his chest and flows through his entire body. He gasps when he feels Bill grab his free hand, like he’s touched a live wire.

They encircle the fire, joining hands, just as they had in the failed Ritual of Chüd. Mike tells them to start chanting something, to picture what they’re summoning in their mind. Richie isn’t sure if he means Eddie or Maturin, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t hear anything over the wind that’s started whipping in his ears. The others seem to be able to understand, because they all start speaking in tangent. No one notices that Richie isn’t participating, and he begins to wonder if they can see him at all. He squeezes Bill and Bev’s hands, and they squeeze back, so he must be here, must be real. Mike looks up, like he’s waiting for something, and the chanting gets louder, as does the high pitched ringing in his ears. He blinks, and sees the shimmer again, closer this time, watches how it seems to flap in the wind like a sheet. 

They chant, and the fire pops, and the wind kicks up their hair, nearly knocks them over, and still nothing happens. They keep at it for five minutes, ten, fifteen, and still nothing. No magic turtles, no sudden apparition of Eddie, nothing. 

He feels Bev and Bill drop his hands, and realizes the chanting has stopped. Mike is on his knees, Bill dropped down next to him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“—so sorry, I thought we had a chance,” Mike is saying, voice cracking. “I don’t know what else we can do.” 

“Mike, do you—“ 

Their voices fade away until he hears nothing but the whistling wind. Richie looks up, and it’s there again, just a few feet away. 

“What the hell is that?” he asks. 

Mike’s head whips up so fast he had to have pulled something. “What’s what? What do you see Richie?” 

“That,” Richie says, as if it’s the only explanation needed. 

He walks towards it mechanically, feet drawn towards it without pausing to consult his brain. 

“Richie, honey, what are you talking about?” 

“Rich? Where are you going?” 

He doesn’t answer. It’s not important anyway. All that matters is getting to the veil. Eddie mentioned a veil. 

“Rich? _Richie_!”

He feels someone tug on his arm and shakes it off. He steps over the debris effortlessly, eyes never straying from the curtain rustling in front of him. He can see flashes of something beyond it, flashes of color, of bright summer mornings, of hammocks swinging, of rocks flying across the Barrens, of _Eddie_. 

He reaches forward, and the panicked voices behind him are so far away, miles and eons and entire universes away. His hand penetrates the veil, and it’s warm, and smooth like water, calm and inviting. He steps closer, and tranquility flows through him, the voices behind him suddenly going quiet, snuffed out like a match. The world shuts off all around him; he looks behind him at last, and sees nothing but the empty fluttering curtain. He’s alone. 

* * *

Richie blinks once, twice. Clarity returns to him slowly, like waking from a long nap. He doesn’t know where he is, and can’t remember how he got here, though it feels eerily familiar. He takes a few steps forward, and tries to get a grip on the sterility of his surroundings. 

His foot lands in soft sand. He glances down to see his shoe pressing into the muddy shore of the Barrens. 

“Aren’t you guys coming in?” 

Richie looks up, startled by the familiar voice. The river comes into focus, as do the trees, the rocks, the gaping concrete hole. He’s near the entrance to the sewers. His heart starts pounding as he walks towards the mouth of the system. 

“Nu-uh. That’s greywater.” 

_Eddie_. 

“What the hell is greywater?” 

“It’s basically— piss and shit, so I’m just telling you! You guys are splashing around in millions of gallons of Derry pee!” 

Richie pauses on the other side of the concrete, hiding from where he knows Eddie is standing. Their voices echo as the bickering continues, and Richie presses his forehead against the rough concrete, smiling despite himself as he listens. 

“Doesn’t smell like caca to me, señor!” 

“Okay, I can— I can smell that from here.” 

Richie takes a deep breath, tells himself to stop being such a fucking pussy. 

“It’s probably just your breath, wafting back into your face.” 

“Have you ever heard of a _staph infection_?” 

Richie rounds the corner in one motion, but Eddie’s nowhere to be found. His voice echoes down the tunnel, words bouncing around the walls, and Richie shivers. There isn’t anything he can imagine right now that feels worse than stepping any further into this hellhole. 

Anything but losing Eddie. 

He steels himself, listening to the voices coming from within, and feels compelled to follow. 

He steps into the water, wincing at the cold sweep of it into his shoes. He can hear familiar voices, high and childlike, and with a jolt realizes they’re screaming. He hears Eddie screaming, hears himself screaming Eddie’s name. Richie runs, turns a corner, and there’s Pennywise hunched over Eddie’s younger self, jaw unhinged. 

“Eddie!” he cries automatically. It turns, sets it’s glare on Richie while holding Eddie in place by the throat. 

He feels a presence next to him, hears Bill’s stutter as he tells Richie that It isn’t real. Bill’s young eyes are wild as he stares at Pennywise. 

“This isn’t right,” Richie tells Bill. Bill doesn’t react, keeps his eyes fixed on Eddie and Pennywise. “You didn’t—didn’t say that here. And you, you’re _dead_,” Richie tells It, breaths coming fast. “You’re fucking _dead_, you sick fuck.”

“This isn’t real enough for you Billy?” It croaks, sending a shiver down Richie’s spine. 

“You’re _dead_, he’s fucking dead Bill,” Richie says. His eyes don’t leave Eddie’s terrified face. 

His vision blurs, and suddenly Bev is there, stabbing It before It can attack Richie and Bill, Ben and Mike close behind her. They gasp as It wails, pulling each other out of the way. 

“Get Eddie,” he hears himself say. 

He watches his younger self spring forward, he and Bill rushing to Eddie’s side as he screams, sees himself cup Eddie’s face and force his attention on him instead of the nightmare in front of them. 

“Eddie, look! Eddie look at me! Look at me!” he’s screaming, Bev tugging and choking him with his shirt collar. 

Richie closes his eyes against the cacophony of their screams, hears him plead with the others that they have to get Eddie out of there, hears Eddie scream Bill’s name, hears him scream at Richie not to touch him. He hears the sickening crack of Eddie’s arm being snapped back into place, and when he opens his eyes, he’s no longer in the sewers or the Well House. 

“Richie, your ten minutes are up.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

The clubhouse is dimly lit. Richie watches Eddie climb into the hammock angrily, their voices rising as they yell over each other, sees Stan roll his eyes and turn away in the corner. The hammock sways with their combined weight, creaking threateningly. It’s a miracle it held up. Eddie’s foot knocks into his face minutes later, pulls his glasses off. His hand falls to Eddie’s ankle, and he watches Eddie smile softly at the contact. 

He blinks, and he’s in the alley behind the pharmacy, watching Ben bleed while Eddie attends to the wound. 

“Pip and tallyho my good fellows! I do believe this chap requires our utmost attention! Get in there Dr. K, come on fix him up!”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up Einstein, because I know what I’m doing and I don’t want you doing the British guy with me right now—”

“Suck the wound! Get in there!”

The alley fades away, morphs into a grassy riverside where the Losers are making an oath.

"Swear it. S-swear if It isn't dead, if It comes back, we'll come back too."

Bill slices Richie’s palm. Eddie looks away, and Richie taps Eddie’s arm anxiously as the glass pierces Eddie’s skin next. The axis shifts, and Eddie’s hand joins his, and Richie can still feel the plaster digging into his open skin. 

Endlessly it goes on, Richie tumbling from one memory to the next with no semblance of order. One minute they’re thirteen, then they’re eighteen, and ten, and sixteen. They’re laughing, they’re screaming and fighting for their life, fighting each other. Richie is always touching him, and Eddie reaches back, the push and pull dragging Richie through this dreamscape of memories. He stops counting after awhile, stops trying to make sense of it, and lets himself be dragged into the deep. 

* * *

Richie climbs through Eddie’s window, grinning as Eddie rolls his eyes and makes room for him on his bed. 

Richie climbs into the sewers, holding tight to Eddie’s uninjured arm.

Richie walks down the hallways of their high school, Eddie’s warmth pressed against his arm, chattering a mile a minute about how incorrect their health teacher is. 

Richie walks into It’s lair, Eddie shaking against his side, brown eyes wide and terrified, wrought iron post clenched tight in one fist. 

Richie is suspended in the deadlights, watching Eddie die over and over again. 

Richie falls, and Eddie is above him, beaming with pride, and he can’t push him out of the way in time. He tastes iron in the air before It pierces through Eddie’s flesh. 

Richie presses his jacket into Eddie’s wound, covers Eddie’s bloody hand with his own, and tries not to think about how much he’s already lost. 

Richie cradles Eddie’s body against his chest, fighting the arms dragging him away, screaming Eddie’s name. 

Richie treks through the ruins of the Well House, yanking debris out of his way, single-minded and desperate, ignoring the dust and grief that chokes him. 

Richie stumbles into It’s ruined lair, catching his breath and searches for Eddie, expecting to find his lifeless body. Instead he finds Eddie sitting crosslegged in the middle of the ruins, very much alive and staring at the shimmering veil in front of him. He hasn’t even noticed Richie. Richie’s heart clenches, equal parts relieved and terrified. 

“Eddie?” 

* * *

_“Heya Eds,” Richie says, brushing dirt off his jeans and right onto Eddie’s carpet. He’s grinning, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks tense, and much more fidgety than normal. _

_“What are you doing here Rich? Besides trying to get me killed a week before I get out of here?” Eddie asks. He tries to stuff the comic he was reading under his pillow, but he can tell by his face that Richie sees it. He doesn’t comment on it for once, instead just hovers awkwardly on the other side of the bed. _

_“What, you think I would spend my last night in dear old Derry anywhere but here? Not a chance, Spaghetti.” _

_“Don’t be so dramatic,” Eddie says with a roll of his eyes, but his heart skips in his chest at the reminder. “What about the everyone else?” _

_“Oh don’t be coy Eddie baby. You know you’re my number one,” Richie says earnestly, and the vice choking his heart squeezes painfully._

_There’s a moment where they just watch each other. Richie still looks nervous, keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot, or unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. Eddie sighs after a moment and tugs down the comforter on his right side. _

_“Stop thinking so fucking loud and just come on, Richie.” _

_Richie grins for real this time, and climbs in without hesitation. And like a well oiled machine, Eddie grabs the flashlight from his nightstand, and Richie pulls the blankets over their heads, and they settle into their familiar positions. Shadows dance over Richie’s face as he scoots close to Eddie, reaching under his pillow without even asking and pulling out the Spiderman edition he’d been reading. _

_“I think we’re kinda old for this,” Eddie comments when Richie tears into it eagerly. _

_“We’ll always be young at heart Eds,” Richie says without looking up from the page. “But I can scrounge up some tequila if you want, we can do body shots and talk about taxes and the state of the economy.” _

_“Shut up,” Eddie snorts, cheeks warm. _

_They read in near silence for a long time. They’ve both read this one before, of course, and so only make a few offhand comments here and there; they’ve settled any arguments about this particular arc several times over by now. Eddie finds another volume when they finish, and another, and another, and they read until their eyes burn. Eddie glances at his watch when they finish Venom and realizes they’ve been at it for five hours. _

_“It’s late,” Eddie says. Richie looks up at him lazily, eyelids drooping. “You staying?” _

_“If that’s okay,” Richie says softly. He drops his gaze, and his solemnity is starting to freak Eddie out. _

_“What’s wrong Rich?” Eddie asks. Richie doesn’t answer, or look at him, and Eddie waits for him to laugh it off, to say he’s never been better, and make some crack about Eddie’s mother, but nothing happens apart from Richie sighing. _

_“I dunno, Eds, I’m just… I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow,” Richie says. “It... it doesn’t feel real.” _

_Eddie swallows. He thought they’d silently agreed not to talk about it, yet here Richie is getting all sappy, the one time Eddie needs him to pretend everything is normal. He’s suddenly wide awake. _

_“I know,” is all Eddie says. “What time do you leave?” _

_He knows, of course he knows, he just doesn’t know what else to say. His chest is tight, and he feels a little dizzy. They should probably come out from under the covers, get some air. _

_“Ten,” Richie answers, even though he knows Eddie knows. They all have plans to meet at Richie’s house before he leaves, for one last round of goodbyes. “You could still come with me, you know.” _

_“Stop it Rich,” Eddie says, and it’s biting, more harsh than he intended. “You— you know I can’t.” _

_“There’s other colleges in Cali, like, lots of them. Or you can just sneak into classes with me, get a free education!” _

_“Richie. Stop.” _

_Richie does, surprisingly. The air feels even thicker under the covers, charged with something almost palpable. Richie looks at him like it’s the last time he’ll ever see him, and it’s breaking Eddie’s fucking heart. _

_“I can’t believe I’m not going to see you everyday,” Richie says quietly. _

_“God, Rich, stop being such a fucking sap,” Eddie snaps, but his voice wavers just enough that Richie sees right through it. _

_“I need to tell you something, Eds,” Richie continues, more serious than Eddie’s ever heard him. His eyes are wild, huge and determined, and Eddie can’t look away. _

_“If you say one word about my mother—“ _

_“No, it’s not— I’m being serious Eddie.” _

_“Okay.” Eddie waits, holding his breath. _

_“I— I want to kiss you.” _

_Eddie stares. Richie’s cheeks are flaming, but he’s looking steadily at Eddie, and he has to give him credit for maintaining eye contact. Eddie’s pretty sure if he’d said that he’d be diving headfirst off of the nearest cliff. Eddie’s stomach tightens when he sees Richie’s eyes flick down to his mouth. _

_“What?” Eddie says blankly. _

_“I want— you fucking heard me,” Richie snaps, blushing even harder. “Don’t make me say it again, I’ll fucking die.” _

_“Okay but— _ ** _what_**_?” Eddie repeats loudly. He lowers his voice, cognizant of his mother sleeping down the hall. “Since— since when?” _

_“I don’t know— like, sixth grade?” _

_“Sixth— six fucking _ ** _years_**_, Rich?” Eddie cries. His breathing picks up, and he surfaces for a moment to snatch his inhaler off the nightstand, sucks in a huge pull of it. Richie’s head appears above the comforter, and he looks like he’s one wrong look away from bolting. “You’ve wanted to— do that, for six years, and you decide to tell me _**_now_**_? Tonight?” _

_“Yes!” Richie blurts, and covers his face with his hands. “I didn’t— I didn’t fucking like, plan for this, okay! I was just— I’m going to miss you so much, and I can’t fucking wait to get out of this fucking town but every time I think about leaving I want to throw up, but it’s only because I don’t want to leave you,” Richie says in a rush, muffled through his hands. “And you look so cute in your PJs, and I was just looking at you and I just— I had to say it! I’m sorry, fuck I’m so sorry, I ruined everything.” _

_He slithers back under the covers before Eddie can respond. Eddie leaves him there for a minute, trying to catch his breath. He breathes in deep through his nose, and takes another drag of his inhaler before he sighs and scoots back under the sheets. Richie is on his side, facing Eddie, hands still pressed tight against his face. Eddie rolls onto his side too, and reaches out to pull his hands away. _

_“Richie,” he says. Richie lets him maneuver his hands but doesn’t open his eyes. “_ ** _Richie_ ** _.” _

_“Don’t, Eds.” _

_“Don’t call me that. And open your fucking eyes.” _

_Richie huffs a breath out through his nose and obeys. His eyes are watery. _

_“You didn’t ruin anything,” Eddie tells him. “I just… I didn’t know. You just took me by surprise, that’s all.”_

_“Jesus, really? I thought I was so fucking obvious. Stan told me last summer if I didn’t do it before graduation he’d blow a gasket.” _

_“Stan knew?” Eddie asks, betrayed. Why the fuck did no one tell him Richie wanted to kiss him this whole time? _

_“Think everyone did. ‘Cept you. You may need to work on your observation skills Eds, or I’m gonna worry about you in New York walking right into a back alley full of murderers or some shit.” _

_“Yeah,” Eddie says vaguely, staring at a spot over Richie’s shoulder. He kind of feels like he’s been hit over the head. Richie sighs, and Eddie’s eyes drop back to his. _

_“I’m sorry Eds. I shouldn’t have said— I don’t even know what this means, if I’m like... you know. Gay, or whatever. I mean I guess... I think I probably - but. I just— I know I want to kiss you so fucking bad it hurts, Eddie,” Richie says, hushed, words barely above a whisper. “And I’m sorry I was too much of a pussy to tell you until now, but I just. Thought you should know, I guess.” _

_“It’s okay, Rich,” Eddie says. He feels his face heat up as he shuffles closer, Richie tracking the movement with restless eyes. Eddie grabs Richie’s hands, resting between them, and laces their fingers together. It’s a little awkward because of the angle, but Richie’s fingers tighten anyway, and he looks down at them almost reverently. _

_“I want to kiss you too,” Eddie admits quietly to their joined hands. He can feel Richie’s stare burning, but keeps his eyes fixed on their hands. _

_“Oh,” Richie breathes, shocked. _

_“But I don’t— I don’t think we should,” Eddie continues quickly, glancing up. Richie’s face falls, and Eddie immediately wants to pull his own hair out. _

_“Oh,” Richie repeats, small and sad. _

_“Because— because then it feels like the end, you know?” Eddie explains hastily. “Like, I can’t kiss you on your last night, cause then it feels like I’ll really never see you again… do you get it?” _

_“No,” Richie says. “No, Eds, it’s not— it wouldn’t be a fucking goodbye kiss, you know? It’d be like… the beginning. Maybe.” _

_“The beginning?” He’s a little breathless when he says it. _

_“Yeah,” Richie says, smiling in a way that makes Eddie feel warm all over. “Yeah, the beginning of like… RichieandEddie.” _

_“We’re already—“_

_“You know what I mean.” Richie shifts closer, and Eddie is trapped, bewitched by the want in Richie’s eyes. _

_“God, your timing is fucking horseshit, Richie,” Eddie says, giggling. _

_“Yeah well,” Richie says, smiling a little sheepishly. “We’re not exactly living in the most gay friendly town on earth, Eds.” _

_“Point,” Eddie agrees. He blinks at their hands, and lets one of his reach up to card through Richie’s hair. Richie lets out a breathless sound, and Eddie’s known for a long time how he feels about Richie, but in that moment he knows he’s truly a fucking goner. _

_“So?” Richie asks softly, eyes locked with Eddie’s. _

_Eddie sighs, and leans close to press their foreheads together. _

_“Don’t kiss me. Not yet,” he whispers. “I want you to remember me in California.” _

_“I’d still remember you if I kissed you, Eds,” Richie argues quietly. “In fact, I’d remember a hell of a lot better if I kissed you. I wouldn’t be able to think about literally anything else.” _

_“No,” Eddie says firmly. “Next time we see each other. I don’t want to kiss you and then not see you for fucking months, Rich. It will feel— it will suck so much worse to not see you for so long after that.” _

_“Eds—“ _

_“No, Rich. Next time. And don’t fucking forget about me.” _

_Richie smiles, soft and warm. “There’s no fucking way I could forget you, Eddie Kaspbrak.” _

_He sees Richie lean in and press his lips to Eddie’s cheek as he leaves, can still feel the warm pressure of it, remembers how chapped Richie’s lips felt against his skin. The memory starts to fade away, and this is the last fucking one. This is the last thing Eddie could remember before he left Derry a week later, before Richie slipped away entirely. Richie had already forgotten all about him by the time he left for New York, with Derry and all traces of his childhood disappearing in his rear view window. _

_Richie slides out of his window, and out of Eddie’s mind. His room starts to dissolve, starting with his dresser, his bed, the boxes littering the floor. And then Richie, smiling and radiant, blowing Eddie a kiss and disappearing from view. _

_Eddie fights to keep the image in his mind. To remember the exact curve of his smile, the skew of his glasses, the way his shirt had gotten stuck in his belt. It doesn’t matter though. He has no control, and it withers away along with everything else. _

_He can’t remember his name. He whispers it to himself one last time, and then its gone. _

_“Eddie?” _

* * *

“Eddie? Eds, oh my god, _Eddie_!” 

Eddie doesn’t turn around once as Richie fights his way to the altar in the center of the cave. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he climbs over a fallen rock, swearing and dropping to his feet, then to his knees at Eddie’s side. 

Eddie stares straight ahead, eyes unfocused. He still doesn’t respond, though the way Richie’s gripping his shoulders has to be bordering on painful. 

“Eddie? Eddie, talk to me, hey, come on,” Richie is babbling, tears leaving a warm trail down his cheeks. 

Eddie turns slowly, eyes glassy and blank, and it reminds Richie so viscerally of the deadlights that panic claws it’s way up his throat, and he’s unable to speak for a minute.

“Eddie?” He gasps, forcing the words out. “Say something please, I’m gonna fucking lose it.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow, and he blinks slowly at Richie. Richie’s hands have found their way to Eddie’s neck, and his thumbs rub small circles against his skin. It’s warm, and he can feel a pulse tapping against his fingertips.

“Eddie, please, say fucking _anything_,” Richie pleads. “Do you— do you know where you are?” 

“I—“ Eddie starts hoarsely. He swallows, and looks around seemingly for the first time. His eyes widen, and Richie can feel his pulse quicken. “Fuck, I’m— I can’t be here, why am I here?” 

“Eds, it’s okay,” Richie assures him. “Hey, look at me.” 

Eddie does, terror clear in his face, and Richie does his best not to let his own show. “Just keep looking at me, okay, we’re okay. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m not leaving you again, okay?” 

Eddie blinks rapidly, and lets out a sharp breath. 

“Richie?” 

“Yeah, Eds, it’s me, I’m here—“ 

His vision is obscured by Eddie’s hair as he launches into Richie, arms wrapping tight around his neck. Richie hugs back, pulling him as close as he can in his position, pressing his lips to Eddie’s hair, his temple. 

“It’s okay, Eddie, you’re okay, shhh.”

“Richie, I— it’s _you_,” Eddie says thickly. “Fuck I couldn’t remember you, Richie, I kept forgetting you, fucking over and over again, I kept _losing_ you—“ 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Richie soothes, cradling the back of Eddie’s head with one hand. “You can’t get rid of me that fucking easy, not after the way you macked on me last night.” 

Eddie pulls back enough to look Richie in the eye. “The way I— holy shit, that was real?” Eddie gasps.

“Fuck yeah it was,” Richie says. “At least I fucking hope so, otherwise we’re in for an awkward conversation.” 

“Holy shit. _Richie_.” 

That’s all the warning he gets before Eddie is leaning in and kissing him. Richie grunts in surprise, doing his best to reciprocate Eddie’s desperate, frenzied pace. Richie cups Eddie’s face in his hands and lets Eddie bite at his lips, then laughs a little when Eddie tries to climb into his lap. 

“Hey, hey,” Richie breathes against his mouth. “I’d like to keep my lips, so we can keep doing this at some point.”

“Sorry,” Eddie gasps. Richie laughs and kisses him again, slow and easy, bringing Eddie back down. They stare at each other for a long moment when he pulls away. 

“Are you okay? Let me see your chest,” Richie says.

“I’m fine, Rich, except for the colossal mindfuck I just had.”

“Let me see anyway.”

“Richie it’s fine— hey!”

Richie lifts Eddie’s shirt, and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Eddie’s pink skin, scarred but clean and whole. 

“_Boundaries_, Richie, Jesus.”

“Whatever, time is of the essence here baby. We need to get out of here. What do we do?”

Eddie looks at him blankly, his cheeks a little pink. “I don’t fucking know, did you miss the part where I just materialized here against my will and had my fucking brains scrambled?”

“Okay, but you’ve been here before, can we just— can we just step through this?” 

He reaches towards the veil, and Eddie snatches his hand back angrily.

“Don’t fucking _do that,_ dumbass,” he snaps. “I don’t— this is different than last time. I wasn’t like, drawn to this, like I was before. This time it just—showed me shit. Memories. I have no fucking clue what will happen if you touch it.” 

Richie looks around, taking in the ruins of the collapsed cave. “Jesus Eds, you were right fucking here the whole time?” His voice hitches, throat tight. “You were— I’m so fucking sorry, Eddie, I’m so—“

“_Stop_ Richie,” Eddie says, holding Richie’s face in his hands, expression hard. “I told you this wasn’t your fucking fault.”

“I should have stayed,” Richie argues. “I shouldn’t have left you, I should have stayed with you.”

“You would have died, dumbfuck, and then I would have had to kill you again. Shut up.”

“No. No, let me just fucking stew in my guilt, okay? You were stuck in this hellhole the whole fucking time I was just like, _working_, and getting drinks with Bill, and binge watching like, Succession and shit—“

Without warning, Eddie pulls Richie’s glasses off his nose. He sees a blurry outline of Eddie’s face glaring at him. 

“You can stew for exactly as long as it takes me to clean your disgusting fucking glasses, and then I never want to hear this shit again. Okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He breathes on the lenses, wipes them clean with his t-shirt. Richie counts his breaths while he does, fully leaning into the guilt curdling in his gut, and when Eddie carefully slides them back on he lets out a long breath. 

“Okay. That’s it, got it? No more guilt.”

“I mean— I can say yes if you want, but I’m not promising anything. Not until I talk to my therapist.” 

Eddie sighs, shaking his head, and looks around. “What are we going to do? I swear I wasn’t— I wasn’t _here_ last time, Richie. It was just... empty, I definitely would have remembered being trapped in It’s fucking lair for that long.”

“Okay, then we just need Maturin to show his wrinkly turtled ass—“

And as if summoned, a shadow appears and looms over their heads. They look up simultaneously, and Richie sees only darkness. If he cranes his head enough, he can almost make out the edge of the shadow, could almost see how it could be an enormous shell. He can see subtle movement, the outline of a vast fin slowly moving above them. 

“Holy shit,” Richie whispers. “Holy shit, is that him?”

“I think so— fuck, what do we do?” 

“I don’t know! You’re the one that’s old pals with him!”

“I don’t fucking remember him, Richie!”

“Okay well we should— we should probably not cower on the fucking ground, come on—“

He helps haul Eddie to his feet. Eddie fists a hand in Richie’s shirt when they’re upright, and they both stare upwards until the shadow encompasses the entire lair. He can feel Eddie shaking. He looks down, and Eddie’s eyes are wide and fixated on what constitutes the sky. Out of the corner of his eye he notices a discarded lump of leather at Eddie’s feet that looks faintly familiar. 

“Hey, is that my—“

“_You’re back._” 

Richie and Eddie freeze, eyes snapping to each other’s in terror. He feels the voice more than he hears it, the way it seeps into his skin and vibrates through him. Richie’s hand finds Eddie’s; he digs Eddie’s fingers out of his shirt so he can hold onto it. 

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie finally answers in a shaky voice. “Yes, I um… hello? Are you— are you him? Where are we?” 

“_I am Maturin. You are in the place between worlds. It is not meant for mortals. You should not be here. I released you._” 

“I fucking knew it,” Richie breathes. “I was _right_, I’m going to fucking _kill_ Mike.”

“So… okay, why _am_ I here?” Eddie asks, ignoring Richie. He seems encouraged that he’s actually getting answers, the tremor in his voice hardening, courage blooming bright in his eyes. “Why did you bring me back? Why is it different?” 

“_It is not different._ _You do not recognize it because I have deemed it so. I did not bring you back, you left it behind._” 

And Richie doesn’t get it, but he knows somehow that he’s talking about the jacket. Eddie must as well, because they both look at it at the same time. 

Eddie frowns. “I left—?“

“_It is a piece of him, and of you. The veil between worlds is fragile in this place, easily permeated. His subconscious, unguarded as it is in slumber, was drawn to it. He slipped through in sleep, and you followed._”

“What the fuck,” Richie says softly. “I don’t— what the _fuck_.” 

“_Your body has never been here. You found your way back. His, however, could not return alone._” 

Richie looks at Eddie. He’s rigid, pale, eyes locked on the giant shadow. Richie squeezes his hand; Eddie doesn’t react.

“I don’t remember that,” Eddie says tightly. “I— why don’t I remember that?” 

“_This place is a vacuum for memories. This is the chasm, the midway point between life and death. I prevented it the first time, but could not when you arrived here without my blessing. Memories are extracted to ease the passing. I intervened, showed you all the memories you had once forgotten, in an effort to prevent total loss until you could be found. They are yours, and you will not lose them again, this I swear._” 

Eddie has tears in his eyes. “Why? Why did you save me, why I am so fucking special?” 

“Eddie,” Richie chastises, though he’s not entirely sure why. It doesn’t seem to offend Maturin, because he continues without comment. 

“_You were taken before your time by my brother. I abandoned this earth, left him alone to ravage this place, and could not return in time to face him myself. I owe you and everyone he has harmed a debt._” 

Richie thinks of Stan, of Georgie, of all the other children, and feels bile rise in his throat. One look at Eddie’s face and he knows he’s thinking the same. Eddie opens his mouth angrily, Richie right behind him, but Maturin speaks again. 

“_You must leave,_” he continues. “_I must move on, there is much damage to be undone. Take it with you, and destroy it at your earliest opportunity.”_

Richie bends down and draws the jacket into his arms, holds it tight against his chest.

_“Farewell. When your time comes, we will meet again._” 

“Wait— wait!” Eddie calls, but light is already returning to the cave. Richie holds Eddie back as he tries to follow, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“Eds, we gotta go,” Richie says urgently in his ear. “We have to get the fuck out of here.” 

“How?” Eddie snaps, but even as he says it the veil changes, shimmers and clears. Through it, Richie can see the other Losers. The fire is still burning, and they all huddle around it, talking frantically, clearly distraught but determined to get them back. It’s dark, nearly dawn; Richie can see the beginnings of sunlight, of early morning mist. They stayed out there all night waiting for him, for Eddie. He nearly cries, overwhelmed with how much he loves them. Richie points, and Eddie softens too, practically whimpers at the sight of them. 

“Let’s go,” Richie says softly. 

Eddie nods, eyes watery, and takes Richie’s hand again. They walk through the veil together, warm serenity enveloping them as they pass through. Richie is just thinking to warn Eddie of the surrounding debris on the other side when Eddie trips, pulling Richie down with him. 

His face is smushed in Eddie’s armpit, and he groans just as Bev lets out a scream. Footsteps pound over to them, and their familiar voices fade in and out of Richie’s consciousness. 

“_Eddie! Richie_! Oh my god!” Mike is gasping. Richie feels hands on his arms helping him to sit up. Eddie is on his back, looking up at the sky with a smile on his face. 

“Richie? Please say something, come on. Eddie are you okay?” Bev is asking. She hovers over Eddie and forces him to look at her with a hand on his cheek. Bill crouches down and helps Eddie sit up, while Ben and Mike hover over Richie anxiously. 

“R-Richie, are you—“

“_So_ good, Bill,” Richie answers. A collective sigh of relief seems to pass through all of them. “Yeah, just had to relive some of the worst moments of my life, but I got my Eddie back, so we’re fucking peachy.” 

Eddie glances at Richie with a look of unbearable tenderness that takes him aback, considering how public their situation currently is. Without a word, Eddie crawls the foot or so over to him, plants a hand on either side of his face, and presses their lips together. 

Richie feels the shock ripple through the others. They seem to get over it quickly, because Bev wolf whistles, and Ben and Bill actually start fucking clapping. Richie ignores it, closes his eyes and kisses Eddie back, running his hands up and down his sides, reveling in the feel of him solid and warm beneath his hands. Eddie breaks the kiss and just stares at Richie with shining eyes, and Richie has never felt so goddamn lucky in his life. 

“Okay, what the _fuck_ happened to you t-two?” Bill demands with a wry little grin on his face. 

“I _told_ you, Richie,” Ben says, grinning widely. Richie flips him the bird. 

“Well, Mike, you were right about the fucking turtle,” Eddie says at last. Mike looks both shocked and fascinated, and leans closer. 

“I was? You met him? What did he say, what did he look like?” 

“Like a fucking turtle,” Richie says dryly. 

“We didn’t really see him, actually,” Eddie corrects, rolling his eyes. “But he was turtle shaped, I guess?” 

“How did you get out?” Ben asks, just as Mike opens his mouth to ask another question and Bev leans closer curiously. 

Richie cuts them all off. “Okay, as much as we’re loving the third degree— it is roughly twenty degrees out here, and sweet baby Eddie is not exactly dressed for the occasion.” Eddie slaps his face gently, which he ignores. “Could we take this conversation somewhere less ‘ruined haunted nightmare house’ and more, I don’t know, IHOP?”

“Of course, shit, sorry, come on,” Mike says, helping the two of them up. 

Once they’re standing, the other four pounce, wrapping Richie and Eddie in bone crushing hugs that eventually turns into a massive group hug. Eddie is definitely crying when they part, as are Ben, Bev and Richie, but no one mentions it. Mike and Bill are misty too, and everyone surreptitiously pats their eyes dry. It’s only then that Richie remembers what he’s holding, and his hands curl into the leather. 

“Right,” Richie says significantly, and Eddie blinks at him before remembrance dawns on his face. “First, we uh, have to burn this.”

“We’ll explain later,” Eddie says in response to their questioning glances. "Maybe. I don't really fucking get it, if we're being honest." 

Richie laughs. They walk their way over to the fire, still going strong despite the late/early hour. Richie offers Eddie the jacket when they reach it, but Eddie shakes his head. 

“No. You do it.” 

Richie nods, takes a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes. Adios muchacha.” 

Richie tosses it in— for a long moment it sits untouched, and then flames start to lick along the arms, crawling up to the neck, and within a few moments its consumed completely. 

Richie’s not sure if he’s supposed to feel anything from it’s loss, but he doesn’t. All he feels is light, relief sweeping sweetly through his veins, accompanied with a bone deep weariness. Eddie looks to be feeling much the same when Richie glances over. Richie reaches out and grabs his hand. Eddie smiles at their joined hands, then at Richie’s face, soft and easy in a way Richie hasn’t seen in a long time. Eddie then looks to his left and grabs Bill’s hand. They share a smile, and soon Mike, Ben, and Bev have all linked hands as well. Richie squeezes Eddie and Ben’s hands and closes his eyes just as the sun crests the horizon, bathing them in sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) a few notes:   
1\. i dont /actually/ think eddie wouldn’t have gotten into stanford - he’s perfect and is a very smart dumbass and of course he would have been accepted, but my hc is that pennywise/the curse or whatever orchestrated it so that none of the losers would stay together after derry, and this was the only thing that i think could have split any of them up, especially richie and eddie  
2\. like last time i have read and edited and changed this chapter so many times now that i don’t know how i feel about it. i hope it lived up to everyone’s expectations! unlike stephen king i was not high on cocaine as i wrote this, so i was at a disadvantage here making up the weird lore as i went. i’m sorry that it’s probably not as action heavy as expected, and really just ended up being a lot of angsting, callbacks to the first movie, and standing around talking to a giant omniscient turtle, but hopefully it was still enjoyable  
3\. speaking of the first movie, i rewatched a lot of it to get the dialogue right and god do i love my 7 disaster children <3  
4\. i imagined the scene of eddie with the flu taking place the winter before pennywise, otherwise i don’t think richie would be reading SOTL so casually   
5\. we’re wrapping up next chapter! remember when i thought this would be 3-4 chapters?? lol. 10 seems like a nice even number to end on, and will be full of tenderness and feeling and will really seal the deal on that angst with a happy ending tag   
6\. on god we gonna get them some therapy
> 
> happy thanksgiving to my american loves!
> 
> [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Richie cries a lot, and they finally get what they deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note the rating change - the explicit part isn't really /that/ explicit, but i still changed it just to be safe

There isn’t an IHOP in Derry. That would be asking for too much, but they do manage to find a Waffle House tucked away downtown. Eddie complains, of course, but ultimately is too tired and hungry to put up much of a real fight about it. They find a booth in the back, far away from the only other two customers, and Eddie wipes down the table with a napkin he wet in the bathroom like it’ll actually do anything. Richie doesn’t even tease him. He just watches him with what he can feel is a dopey grin, and briefly considers proposing to him right then and there. The six of them squeeze in a big booth together among the smell of grease and coffee, with Eddie in the center and an empty space for Stan, as always. 

Richie and Eddie do their best to muddle through an explanation of what happened beyond the veil, though it’s starting to get fuzzier the more they talk about it. Richie gets fidgety about halfway through, stammering and using a thick layer of self deprecating humor to protect himself when he recounts the kind of memories he’d had to relive. Not that they were all bad; the majority were actually pretty good, but were uncomfortably revealing, and he feels itchy just thinking about it. He’s in the midst of exaggerating Maturin’s voice, complete with a combination of his best accents when Eddie rests a hand on his bouncing thigh and takes over the story, and it’s embarrassing how quickly it works to calm him down. 

Their food arrives just as Eddie gets to the part where they stepped back through the veil. He’s been surprisingly calm and concise with his recap, considering he’d suffered the brunt of the trauma. His only tell is the tic in his jaw and the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on Richie’s knee. 

“Fuck,” Bill says succinctly when they finish. 

Eddie nods without looking up from cutting his eggs. And who the fuck cuts _eggs_? It’s unconscionable how every annoying fucking thing he does is the most endearing thing Richie’s ever seen. 

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. He tears his eyes away from analyzing Eddie’s eating habits and digs into his waffle without further discussion, ignoring Eddie’s scoff when he drowns it in syrup. The others follow suit, and they scarf down their food in contemplative silence. 

They demolish their meals in record time, and the waitress clears their plates, leaving their bill on the table without a word. They ignore it and nurse fresh cups of coffee, collectively digesting everything. 

“So,” Ben starts after three full minutes of silence and staring into coffee cups. “You think it’s over? _Really_ over?” 

“Yes,” Eddie answers immediately. 

“What makes you so sure?” Bev asks. 

Eddie frowns. “I can’t explain why, it’s just… a gut feeling, I guess. I think he was telling the truth, he just wants to set things right.” 

“I’m sorry,” Mike says out of the blue, and Richie’s startled to see tears brimming in his eyes when he looks over. “You were right Richie, we shouldn’t have come back here, we should have—“

“Hey, no, stop,” Richie says, just as Eddie and Bill open their mouths too. “We all agreed, okay?”

“Yeah, Mike, it was my decision, remember?” Eddie interrupts. He reaches out to touch Mike’s arm. “It’s not on you, Mike. _Nothing_ is. Ever. Okay?” 

“Thanks,” Mike says. He takes a deep breath and deflates, like he’s been waiting his entire life to hear someone say that. Bill wraps an arm around his shoulders, and Richie still _really_ wants to comment on that, but for once he can recognize that it’s not the moment. 

Bev sighs, pushes her hair out of her face. “Well. I guess it’s time for us to get the fuck out of Derry. _Again_. Third time’s the charm?” 

She winks at Ben, who smiles and presses his lips to her hair. They finish their coffee, Bev insists on paying the bill, and then they’re trudging out into the cold like zombies. Eddie’s so dead on his feet he sags into Richie’s side as they walk back to Mike’s car, and Richie has to snake an arm around his waist to keep him upright. There isn’t room for all of them in the car, so Eddie has to curl onto Richie’s lap. This time he doesn’t bitch about crash statistics and seatbelt laws. He sits sideways with his feet in Ben’s lap and presses his face into Richie’s neck, and dozes off within seconds. Bev watches them with a soft expression that’s only a little smug, and Richie doesn’t even try to suppress the grin he gives in return. 

* * *

The Losers traipse into the townhouse for the last time ever, if Richie has any say over it. They mumble sleepy goodnights to each other despite it being nine am and disperse. Richie tries to see everyone off in their respective rooms properly, but he’s a bit preoccupied with getting Eddie up the stairs in one piece; he’s still clinging to Richie like a leech. 

Richie immediately collapses on the bed when Eddie closes their door behind them, but Eddie, naturally, has to go and ruin his beautiful plans of sleeping straight through the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. 

“I’m going to shower,” Eddie mutters, stumbling towards the bathroom. 

“Wait— _what_? Eddie, we didn’t even actually touch the sewers, remember? Can we _please_ just pass the fuck out?” 

Eddie glances over his shoulder at Richie, eyes heavy. “You can if you want, Rich. I need to wash this day the fuck off.” 

He disappears into the bathroom, and Richie has no choice but to heave himself up and follow him. 

Eddie is bent over the bathtub, adjusting the water temperature, and rolls his eyes when he sees Richie behind him. 

“Richie, I’m serious, go to bed. I’ll be there soon.” 

“Yeah… don’t think my codependency or paranoia is going to let that happen,” Richie says. He sits on the toilet and leans his head back against the wall, eyes falling shut. “I’m not gonna peep or whatever, don’t worry, just— do your thing.” 

Eddie sighs, and then Richie feels hands on his face, and Eddie’s mouth kissing him softly. He opens his eyes when Eddie pulls back, and catches Eddie on the tail end of a fond smile. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“And you’re a flight risk. _And_ a fall risk, you’re basically sleeping upright right now. Just shower, please, and like, sing, or talk to me or rant about something. Just so I know you’re still there.” 

Eddie shakes his head, and Richie closes his eyes when he tugs off his shirt. He’s too tired to get worked up looking at Eddie’s bare chest right now. 

He listens as Eddie pulls the shower curtain shut, hears the snick of the shampoo bottle being opened. The pounding water against the tile is soothing. His eyes droop, and he says the first thing he can think of to keep himself awake. 

“Do you think Mike spoons Bill, or the other way around?” 

“Jesus Richie,” Eddie says over the sound of the shower, laughing. “I don’t want to picture it, actually.” 

“Really? But they’re both so beautiful, why wouldn’t you want to picture it?” 

“Beautiful, huh?” 

“Not as beautiful as you,” Richie assures him quickly. “_No one’s_ as beautiful as you, Eddie darling.”

“They’re our _friends_, Rich, don’t be a fucking creep.” 

Richie ignores him. “Mike’s taller, but that doesn’t mean much. You’re always the big spoon when we sleep, you know, it’s fucking adorable. Makes me feel all warm and safe in your tiny strong arms.” 

Something clatters, and Eddie swears quietly. “_Richie_.”

“What? They’re definitely wondering the same about us. Probably talking about it right now.”

“Right, I forgot, the world always revolves around you.” 

“I mean, I do have over a million twitter followers, Eds—“

“Oh my god— stop talking and just get in here, okay?” 

Richie freezes. Eddie’s wet hand appears through the curtain, beckoning. Richie stares at it, and Eddie eventually drops it when Richie doesn’t respond. He peeks his wet head out instead, and it shouldn’t be so fucking cute the way his wet hair is plastered flat to his head like that. 

“Sorry, that was uh, presumptuous,” Eddie apologizes, and it’s so fucking adorable the way his face scrunches in embarrassment. “I don’t mean— we don’t have to like— but you’re babbling, and I think it might calm us both down to—“

“Eds, chill. You don’t have to work so hard to convince me to shower with you,” Richie laughs, but his skin feels too tight. All his brain can process is _naked Eddie, Eddie is naked in there, naked and wet and beautiful—_

“Fuck off. Invitation’s open, is all I’m saying.” Eddie disappears back into the shower behind a cloud of steam that’s fogging up Richie’s glasses. He takes a steadying breath, and briefly wonders what exactly the fuck is wrong with him when he answers. 

“If I come in there, the last thing I’ll be able to do is calm down. And I won’t have my glasses, and I really wanna actually see you the first time I, you know. _See_ you.” 

Eddie laughs, and it echoes in the small bathroom. “You’re such a fucking sap, Tozier.” 

“Whatever, I’m just too tired to commit to anything sexual right now, and I can’t have you thinking I’m a bad lay.”

“I literally wouldn’t know the difference Rich. Closeted in a loveless marriage for fourteen years, remember.” 

Richie’s quiet after that, at a loss for what to say that won’t make him sound like an asshole. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. Richie listens to the sounds of him showering, the sound of the water, Eddie’s yawns. He’s pretty sure he dozes off for a minute until Eddie’s voice stirs him awake again. 

“Want me to leave the water on for you?” 

“Hmm,” Richie hums noncommittally. 

“You should at least wash your hair Rich, it reeks of smoke.”

“People pay to have shit smell like fire, Eds. Like, there are fancy candles that specifically—“

“Don’t get me started on that stupid shit. You smell like a barbecue, is what I’m telling you.” Eddie’s hand pokes out again, grabs a towel off the rack by the shower curtain. 

“Jesus, fine, then just say so if you want me to—“

The words die in his throat, because Eddie is now stepping out of the shower, shirtless and wet, skin pink, towel drooped low over his hips. And it’s not like he hasn’t seen Eddie like this before, but that was before he was allowed to touch, and ogle, and he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. 

“Right,” is all he says, voice dangerously close to sounding like a squeak. “Well, that settles it. When it happens, we’re doing it with the lights off.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie says, digging in his dopp kit for his toothbrush. 

“I mean, I can’t come at you with my dad bod when you’re walking around looking like _that_.”

Eddie pauses his vigorous toothbrushing to glare at Richie. “You’re an _idiot_,” he says around the brush. He spits aggressively, like the toothpaste offended him. 

“Maybe so, but either way maybe you could just—“ he gestures for Eddie to turn around. Eddie rolls his eyes and turns to face the opposite wall, going back to his aggressive brushing routine. 

Richie strips quickly and steps into the shower, and he has to give props to the townhouse for it’s hot water capacity. He’s just wetting his hair when he hears Eddie cap his toothbrush and pack everything neatly away. 

“Hey, can you uh. Can you stay? Until I’m done? I’ll be quick, promise.” 

In the back of his head somewhere, he knows he’ll have to deal with this. The persistent fear that Eddie will disappear, the slightly unhealthy codependency he can feel creeping back in like they’re twelve again, made worse by the number Eddie’s resurrection has done on his head. He believed Maturin, and deep down he really believes Eddie is here for good, but he can’t completely shake the unease he still feels when Eddie is out of sight. 

“Of course,” Eddie says, and the soft understanding in his voice brings Richie to tears. Again. He has a quick sobfest in the shower, thankful for the muffling sound of the shower as he cries it out. 

Richie finishes up quickly, wrapping the towel all the way up to his his chest when he steps out. Eddie’s already dressed in a soft tshirt and boxers. He shakes his head at the towel around Richie’s chest, and reaches up to rub a thumb under Richie’s swollen eye. Gently, he slides Richie’s glasses on his face. 

“Your clothes are on the sink,” Eddie tells him quietly. He then steps out to let Richie dress, leaving the door cracked enough that Richie can see him climb into bed. 

Richie climbs in a few minutes later, after he’s shakily pulled on the clean clothes Eddie left for him. He and Eddie draw together like magnets the moment he’s pulled the blanket up to his chest. Eddie pulls Richie’s face down to press a soft, slow kiss to his lips, ankle curling around Richie’s calf. 

“Just for the record… I happen to like dad bods,” Eddie says, smirking against his lips. 

“Really?” Richie asks, grinning. Eddie kisses him again, one hand trailing down to Richie’s hip, thumb brushing over the swell of his skin under his shirt. Richie shivers, and swipes his tongue over Eddie’s bottom lip. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says when they break apart. “Or maybe I just like you.” 

And Richie can’t help from ducking down and burying his face in Eddie’s neck, pressing his lips to his Adam’s apple and inhaling the scent of his skin, warm and clean and perfect. 

“We’re gonna have to stop talking around all this eventually, huh?” Richie says quietly into his neck. 

“Probably,” Eddie says. “Or maybe not. We’ve both gotten impressively good at repressing shit.” 

“Good point. Speaking of, uh… I love you. I don’t think I got to say it since… well, _since_, and it’s important to me you know that was real.” 

Eddie laughs. Richie feels it vibrate through his lips, down to his chest, settling and making a home there. “I know, Richie. I love you too.” 

Richie smiles helplessly into Eddie’s neck. “I love you,” Richie says again, just because he can, and because he’s bordering on delirious. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you.” 

Eddie tightens his hold on Richie’s shoulders, voice sounding a little thick when he says, “Go to sleep, you big sap.” 

* * *

Richie estimates they get about seven uninterrupted hours of sleep before the nightmares start. Mercifully, thanks to some higher power, like the fucking turtle, most likely, Richie doesn’t remember them the moment his eyes open.

Eddie wakes first, gasping and sweating, Richie’s name falling from his tongue before he’s even fully conscious. Richie sits up, and shushes him with a hand pressed firmly against his chest until he curls back into Richie’s arms and falls back to sleep within seconds.

Richie wakes next, quieter than Eddie, blinking away the horrors that are already forgotten. Eddie must sense it still, because he runs his hand through Richie’s hair, and whispers little reassurances until Richie’s breathing evens out. His hand is still in Richie’s hair when he falls back to sleep. 

The third time, after hours of blissful, forgettable dreaming, Bev wakes them up with a quiet knock on their door. 

“Rich? Eddie?” she calls quietly. 

“Hmmpfh?” Richie answers eloquently, not bothering to open his eyes. Eddie shifts against his back but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge her presence. 

“We’re grabbing something to eat in a little bit. Ben and I are flying out later. Bill and Mike too.” 

“Already?” Eddie mumbles. Richie feels him pull his head up from where it was buried in his hair. 

Bev laughs. “It’s eight, Eddie.” 

“PM?” 

“AM.” 

“_What_?” Eddie shrieks. He bolts upright, leaving Richie suddenly cold. 

“You’ve been sleeping this whole time?” Bev asks incredulously. “We kind of assumed you were—“ 

“F-u-c-k-i-n-g,” Richie singsongs, burying his face deeper in the pillow. 

“That,” Bev confirms. “It was way too quiet though, should have known.” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie snaps while Bev giggles. “Shit, okay, we’re up.” 

“No we’re not.” 

“We’re _up_,” Eddie repeats. “We’ll be there, as long as it’s not fucking Waffle House.” 

Bev snorts. “We’ll meet you downstairs.” 

She leaves, and Eddie falls back into the pillows heavily. 

“Richie, get up. We slept for like, twenty-two hours straight.” 

“Yeah, and it was fucking great, why are you trying to make it stop?” 

“Because that’s ridiculous. And they’re leaving, come on, get up.” 

He smacks Richie’s hip and clambers out of bed. Richie groans as Eddie noisily brushes his teeth, and finally opens his eyes. The room is bright, blurry. There’s definitely drool drying on his neck, and his mouth feels like sandpaper and tastes like the bottom of a dumpster. Eddie is muttering to himself about soap scum or some shit in the bathroom, and he’s pretty he’s sure never woken up happier in his life. 

They make it downstairs fully dressed in reasonable time, despite a ten minute argument about whether pajamas were proper breakfast attire. (Richie insists they’re perfectly appropriate, Eddie thinks wearing pajamas in public should be punishable with jail time). They follow Mike’s rental car to a diner downtown, one that Richie distinctly remembers being there when they were kids. They park, and Richie and Eddie join the others hovering outside the door for a long minute, each lost in their own reminiscence. 

Eventually Bill snaps them all out of it and leads them inside. Their old oversized booth in the back corner is free, and Bill leads them to it automatically. They order, and talk, and laugh about the summer Richie and Bill scrounged for spare coins and dollars to order an entire coconut pie for Stan’s birthday, only to shove his face in it the moment it arrived. The subsequent food fight that ensued had gotten them kicked out for a solid month, and Eddie had complained relentlessly that the nut particles flying through the air were going to make him break out in hives, but it was worth it. 

Eddie’s a warm weight against Richie’s side the entire time they eat. He orders pancakes, surprisingly, and doesn’t even blink when Bev asks the waitress for peanut butter for her toast. 

“Hey,” Richie says quietly to him while everyone is distracted with some story Ben is telling. Eddie blinks up at him, frowning a little to indicate he’s listening. Richie reaches out and smoothes the worry line creasing between his eyes. 

“What?” Eddie asks, lips curling into a small smile that’s all dimple when Richie’s thumb traces down over his lips, stopping at his chin. 

Richie shrugs. “Just wanted to look at you.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but definitely blushes. “Gross.” 

“Somewhere out there, Stanley Uris is giving us a judgmental death glare and swearing he’ll never be in the same room as us again,” Richie says fondly. 

“God, could you imagine?” Bill interrupts. “It was b-bad enough when you t-two were just flirting all the time. He’d have l-locked the two of you in the clubhouse and t-thrown away the key if you’d gotten together as teenagers.” 

“Or he’d lock himself in and not let anyone in,” Bev says with a laugh. 

“He’d let me,” Richie says confidently. “We had an understanding.” 

“That was before you and Eddie were sucking face,” Ben adds. 

“I miss him,” Eddie says quietly. “I mean, it’s been twenty-seven years, and we never knew him as an adult but… I still miss the shit out of him.” 

“Me too,” Mike says. The rest of the table echoes the sentiment, sobering and eyeing the empty space at the table. 

“Hey, guys,” Eddie says seriously after a moment, taking advantage of the somber mood. “I um. I wanted to say thanks. For coming back here, for me. I know how hard it was to come back, and that you took time out of your lives that you _literally_ just got back, for me. I never got to say it last time we were here, but… I love you guys. More than anything.” 

“Eddie,” Beverly says softly, eyes glistening. As one, they all move in towards Eddie, arms wrapping around shoulders and reaching across the table to grab Eddie’s hands. Richie presses a kiss to the crown of his head and lets his chin rest on top of it. He hears sniffling from all around, and the rest of the diner has to be giving them weird looks at this point but Richie couldn’t care less. He has Eddie, and the people he loves most in the world. That’s all he’ll ever need. 

“Meet in the bathroom for a quick orgy before the airport?”

“_Beep beep Richie_.”

They say their goodbyes outside the diner. Ben and Bev promise to call as soon as they land, and invite everyone to their lake house for Christmas. Bill and Mike give them each lingering hugs, and walk away with their arms wrapped around each other. Richie and Eddie see them off, waving until the rental car has rounded a corner and out of sight. 

“So,” Eddie says heavily when they’re gone. They climb into Richie’s car, and Richie starts the engine to get the heat going. “I guess we should get the fuck out of here too, huh?” 

“Fuck yeah,” Richie agrees. 

“Guess now that I‘m a real person again, we can fly home, huh?” 

Richie pauses, hand hovering over the gearstick. _Home_. The word brings him to a grinding halt, and the reality that Eddie is here, for good — that he’s talking about them, plural, sticking together, that he’s calling L.A. _home_... something in Richie snaps. Tears well in his eyes before he can get a grip on himself, and he feels Eddie’s hand on his arm.

“Rich? Richie, fuck, what’s wrong—“

“Home,” Richie repeats raggedly. He looks at Eddie, blurry through his tears. “You— I mean, you want to live with me? In L.A.?” 

Eddie looks at him like he’s speaking Japanese. “_Obviously_, dumbass.” 

The response makes Richie choke on an undignified sob. Eddie’s eyes widen in panic, and the mildly horrified look on his face indicates he’s second guessing everything. 

“I mean— shit, is that okay? If it’s too fast, I can— I can get my own place, or go back to New York—“

“_No_, shut the fuck up, no way,” Richie says quickly. “No, of course that’s okay, I want you there Eds, it’s just. I’m not the most emotionally stable right now, and it just fucking hit me that this is like. This is real. This is _real_, right? Fuck, I keep thinking I’m dreaming, or I’m back in the inter-dimensional sewer just tripping down memory lane, and that any second you’re gonna disappear— how do we _know_ this is real?” 

Eddie gathers Richie’s face between his hands in lieu of an answer, and leans across the console to kiss him. Eddie’s thumbs brush his wet cheeks, and he kisses Richie so carefully. Slowly one of Eddie’s hands finds one of his, and pulls it down and under his own shirt until Richie can feel the rough scar tissue. 

“Jesus, Eds, buy me dinner first—“ 

“This is _real_, Richie. Five percent,” Eddie murmurs against his mouth, just as he had the first time he kissed him. Richie relaxes, lets his fingers trace along the raised skin, memorizing with his hands the pattern he knows better than his own body by now. He breathes in Eddie’s soft gasp when his pinky grazes a nipple, sealing their lips together again, hand pressing against his chest to feel the racing heartbeat underneath. 

“Five percent,” Richie agrees when they pull apart. He feels Eddie smile against his mouth. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

* * *

An hour later they’re packed, and Richie is loading the car while Eddie looks up flights on his phone. They decided against driving back, because Richie’s forty and his back is fucked up enough and he doesn’t want to waste any more fucking _time_. 

“Okay, first flight to L.A. isn’t until six-thirty on Delta. Should I book it?” 

“Yeah. Get business class,” Richie answers, slamming the hood shut on the last of their stuff. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow once they’re back in the car. “You know, you don’t have to work so hard to impress me anymore, Rich.” 

“Oh yes I do, Spaghetti Eddie. Gotta lock you down while I’ve got you on the hook.” Richie pulls away from the townhouse, making a quick promise to himself that he’ll never have to see it again. “Mostly I’m interested in the complimentary hot towel though.” 

Eddie chuckles, and its quiet but for the keyboard clicks on Richie’s phone as Eddie painstakingly chooses their seats. He also looks up nearby auto shipping companies, and tells Richie there’s one near the airport where they can drop the car. When Eddie looks up again, they’re passing Neibolt. Richie stops at a light, and both of their eyes are drawn to the Well House a few blocks down. 

“I uh. I wanted to make a stop on our way out, if that’s okay,” Richie hedges as they stare at the rubble. Eddie swivels his head around. “Well, two stops.” 

“As long as it’s not there,” Eddie says, nodding to the ruins. 

“Fuck no,” Richie answers. He clears his throat, fingers clenching around the steering wheel. “It’s um, not far.” 

Eddie nods, and Richie drives. If he recognizes the route they’re taking, he doesn’t comment on it. He just looks serenely out of the window, like he’s taking all of Derry in one last time. It’s only when they round the corner to the dirt road that Eddie seems to understand, and he looks over at Richie questioningly. 

“Richie?” Eddie says. Richie pulls off the road and parks. He doesn’t look at Eddie, just climbs out and walks around to wait for Eddie to get out too.Eddie follows where Richie leads them down the pathway.

“Richie, what are we doing here?” 

Richie stops when the smooth stone turns into a natural rocky staircase. Eddie is right behind him, and touches Richie’s arm. 

“Do you remember the first time we came here?” Richie asks. 

The water is calm. For a few moments, the only sound is the water gently sloshing against the stone steps. He looks out over the expanse of green, the color reminding him of Eddie’s last moments, of being dragged out of the sewers. It reminds him of summer, of Eddie’s small hands pushing him under the water, and slapping his shoulders when he tugged Eddie under by his legs. He reaches over and finds Eddie’s hand. He can feel his eyes on him, but keeps his gaze focused on the water. 

“Yeah, of course,” Eddie answers quietly. 

“We kept staring at Bev,” Richie says, laughing. “None of us had ever seen a girl in her underwear before. Thought Bill was gonna cream his pants. Ben too.”

“Ew,” Eddie says, but he’s laughing too. “Remember Ben scaring the shit out of us, telling us how kids always went missing in Derry? Why did we ever become friends with him?” 

Richie nods with a soft laugh. “We came here again, after.” He doesn’t have to elaborate; Eddie’s hand tightens in his, and he knows he understands. Richie pulls him a few steps down, closer to the water, and sits on the edge of the rock. Eddie follows, leaning into him, thumb brushing Richie’s knuckles. “And it was like… I kept thinking you were gonna pop up out of the water, like it was all a joke, that you’d somehow managed to swim your way out. But then… the others starting talking about you in the fucking past tense, and then it was just so fucking real, that you were gone.” 

“Richie…” 

“And I— fuck, I don’t know man,” Richie continues. “I don’t know why I thought coming here was a good idea. I guess I thought it’d be like, therapeutic, or some shit. Water’s supposed to be healing, someone told me.” 

“I think that only works if you’re in the water. And I’m _not_ going in there when it’s thirty degrees out and we’ve got a plane to catch in six hours.” 

His words are gentle, made gentler by the hand that’s found its way to Richie’s neck. He brings it up to push through Richie’s hair a few times before he sighs and lays his head on Richie’s shoulder. 

“You wanna hear something pathetic?” Eddie asks. 

“Always,” Richie replies, wrapping an arm around his waist and laying his cheek against Eddie’s hair.

“I came here the day after Bill’s sixteenth birthday party. Remember, the one where you made out with Lucy Simmons, and I didn’t talk to you for a week?” 

“Shit, _that’s_ why you were mad at me?” 

“Of course it was,” Eddie answers. “I mean, I didn’t really know why I was so mad at the time, of course. I was really fucking confused, which just made me angrier. And every time you came over to try and apologize I just wanted to punch you in the face.”

“Well fuck me,” Richie says, laughing. “That’s so cute, Eds, you were _jealous_!” 

“I didn’t _know_ I was jealous,” Eddie says. “It took me awhile to figure that part out. But I remember exactly when it hit me. I kept coming here that week, to fucking brood and throw rocks or whatever like a shitty teenager. And I was sitting right down there, and I remember I thought, ‘why couldn’t the bottle have landed on _me_?’, and then immediately wanted to throw myself in the water.” 

“Ouch, Eds.” 

“Shut up, you know what I mean. I was fucking _terrified_, Rich.”

“I know,” Richie says, pulling Eddie in closer. “I was worse, though. I used to listen to the most pathetic collection of sad songs about doomed love, and stare at that picture of us from my fifteenth birthday.” 

“What picture?” 

Richie sighs. “I knew you’d ask. Jesus, this is embarrassing, it— my mom took it, it was right when I was about to blow out the candles. Everyone was gathered around behind me, and when my mom said ‘three’, you hugged me from behind and kissed my cheek, and she caught it on camera.”

“Aw, Rich—“ 

“Shut up,” Richie says, but he laughs, and hangs his head, shaking it. “It was so fucking sad, I carried that fucking picture with me _everywhere_. Stan found it once, and like, he already knew but from that point on he gave me shit about you _constantly_.” 

Eddie leans up now and kisses his cheek where he can reach it, exactly where he’d kissed him all those years ago. “What happened to it?”

“I don’t know. Lost with all the rest of my old Derry stuff. Can’t believe I let it go when I went to Stanford. I’d never have been able to forget you if I’d still had it.” 

“Fucking Pennywise.” 

“_Fucking_ _Pennywise_,” Richie agrees with a sigh. “Anyway, mine’s more pathetic. I win.” 

“Yeah, you do,” Eddie agrees. 

Richie pinches his side, and Eddie smacks his knee. Richie covers Eddie’s hand with his, and they stay there for a long time, quietly watching the water together. This is their reward, he thinks, for making it through to the other side. They can steal back these moments they missed as teenagers, these moments Richie never thought he’d get, especially not with Eddie. Eddie nuzzles closer into Richie’s shoulder, presses his cold lips to Richie’s neck. 

“We should go,” Eddie says after awhile.

Richie nods, and they stand, walking hand in hand back to the car. It feels like an act of rebellion to do this in Derry. One last fuck you to the town that took Eddie from him, that took parts of himself from him, that made him ashamed and scared and confused his entire life. Richie feels thirteen, and sixteen, and twenty and forty and every age in between all at once, holding hands with Eddie and pulling him closer to kiss him, just because he can. Just because Eddie will let him, and kiss him back without hesitation.

When Richie pulls up to the bridge ten minutes later, he can’t help the flutter of nerves that starts in his stomach and spreads to his throat, that chokes him and makes his hands start to sweat. It’s _stupid_. They’ve done the confession thing already, he’s literally had Eddie’s tongue in his mouth, but the thought of showing Eddie something that was once his biggest secret, one that was buried so deeply in his psyche in a dirty little box labeled Do Not Look Under Any Circumstance, one that a fucking demon clown was able to use it to torture him for three fucking decades — it still kind of makes him want to throw up. 

“The Kissing Bridge?” Eddie asks when Richie parks under the covered parkway. He looks a little pale himself. “Richie—“

“Just come on,” Richie says, exiting the car without explanation. 

He hears Eddie’s footsteps behind him, and refuses to look back for fear he’ll lose his nerve. It’s stupid to be nervous, he reminds himself, but his shaking hands can’t seem to get with the program. He hesitates in front of the spot, sun beating down on his neck, but it does nothing to warm him. The sun shines like a beacon on the wood, making the initials practically glow, begging someone to notice them. Eddie stops next to him; Richie chances a glance, and is a little surprised to see trepidation on his face.

“I, um... I want to show you something, though now it’s occurring to me that you’ll be able to use this against me for the rest of our lives.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Here.”

He points to the spot. The _R + E_ is still fresh from the last time he was here, standing out among all the other declarations and expressions of love from years past. His fingers brush the jagged place where he carved his feelings when they felt too big to contain, too dangerous to say aloud, and yet impossible to keep buried for one second longer. He remembers his fingers slipping over the pocket knife from the way his hands had sweat, terrified that Bowers would sneak up him, or that Eddie would ride by and catch him in the act. It didn’t stop him, though. It felt like freedom, like forever, like no matter what this town took from him he could always keep Eddie here, could immortalize them together forever. 

Eddie’s fingers trace over the letters, and it makes Richie shiver to see it. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, so Richie starts babbling to fill the silence. 

“I did that when we were thirteen,” he says in a rush. “A couple days after we thought we killed It. I was fucking terrified, because we were going to the arcade later that day and I was so sure you were gonna catch me. And at the same time, I think I kind of wanted you to.”

Eddie still says nothing. He keeps running his fingers over the letters, back to Richie. He wishes he could see his face. 

“I came back, after you... after,” he continues thickly. He still can’t say _after you died_ out loud, even now. “That’s why it looks fresh.”

Eddie turns around finally, and Richie barely has time to catalogue his expression before he’s dragging Richie down by his collar and kissing him. 

Eddie kisses him hard enough that they rock back a couple steps, until Richie is crowding Eddie against the wood, and he has enough clarity to think he shouldn’t press too hard, because it’s the only barrier between them and a steep hill, and it’s an old fence. The thought disappears the moment Eddie’s tongue finds his, his hands feverish on Richie’s neck and in his hair, and then it’s all he can do to stay upright, knees embarrassingly weak, head full of nothing but _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie_. 

When they break apart to breathe, Eddie is looking up at him with those stupid big doe eyes that make Richie want to give him the world. 

“That— uh, you—“ Richie stammers stupidly while Eddie catches his breath. 

“We’re so dumb, Rich,” Eddie says, laughing a little. He can feel his smile against his lips when Eddie kisses him again, softer. “We’re so fucking stupid, it would be funny if it weren’t also fucking depressing.”

“I mean... I’m not arguing with you, but could you be more specific?” 

Eddie sighs, and buries his head in Richie’s neck. 

“Go look at the bottom plank,” Eddie says, muffled in Richie’s coat. 

Richie disentangles them, and crouches down to survey the wood. 

“To your left… _left_, dumbass. No, more— see it?”

Richie does. His heart lodges in his throat when he sees the tiny, neat little _R_ in Eddie’s blocky writing, surrounded by a messy, uneven heart, almost directly below his own carving. 

“I was too chicken shit to put my initial there too,” Eddie says. “I thought you’d found it somehow, and that’s why you brought me here.”

“Jesus,” Richie says thinly. “God, we— we wasted so much goddamn time. When did you do this?” 

“Seventeen. When I got my Stanford rejection letter.”

“Eddie...” 

He can’t help the breathless way he says it. He stands again and pulls Eddie in, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He feels Eddie wrap his around his waist, and they stay that way for a long time, keeping each other warm and breathing each other in. 

“I love you,” Eddie says after awhile, pressing his lips to Richie’s neck. “And I don’t want to waste any more fucking time.”

He kisses his way up to Richie’s mouth, mouth open and hot. Richie cradles his face between his hands, and when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss Eddie moans in a way that could probably get him arrested for indecent exposure. 

“Jesus, Eds, you can’t just— we’re in _public_.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Eddie says, pushing up on his toes to kiss Richie’s jaw. There’s something to process in that sentence, some growth on both of their parts that they can be casually making out like this without concern in the middle of the road in fucking _Derry_, but Richie is no longer in the headspace to think about that. All he can focus on is every point of contact between them, from Eddie’s soft lips to his chest pressed to Richie’s, down to the toes creeping between Richie’s feet to slot their legs together. Richie snakes his hand under Eddie’s several layers to touch his bare hip and Eddie actually bucks into the touch. 

“Car,” Eddie gasps, pressing a searing kiss to Richie’s lips before taking his hand and dragging him away.

He’d parked under the shaded parkway, so it’s cold when Eddie pushes him into the backseat, but he forgets completely about something as trivial as frostbite when Eddie climbs into his lap and straddles him as best he can in the narrow backseat. He thanks past-Richie for the foresight to bring the Range Rover instead of the Mustang, and past-Eddie for telling him he was not spending five days crammed in Richie’s ‘midlife crisis ticket trap’.

Eddie wastes no time. Richie’s barely settled on his back before Eddie leans down and kisses him, hot and wanting and way too dirty for someone who he suspects has only had sex a handful of times in his life. Richie does his best to keep up; Eddie is voracious, making him shiver when he presses his cold hands under Richie’s sweater. 

“Christ, Eds, where’d you learn to kiss like this?” Richie asks when Eddie sits up to start peeling layers off. “Did you secretly make all your money in porn?”

“Richie, shut the fuck up and take off your shirt,” Eddie says. Richie blinks and Eddie is suddenly shirtless, reaching down to unbutton Richie’s coat for him. His mouth is on Richie’s neck, and it’s distracting as fuck, especially when Eddie’s breath starts to fog Richie’s glasses. 

“Eddie, wait, just— we— you remember we checked out of the townhouse, right? Like, we can’t shower before we leave for the airport.” 

“Do _you _remember what I did for a living? _Not_ porn,” he adds quickly, obviously sensing Richie’s answer. “I’ve already considered that. Benefits outweigh the risk, and I want you in a stupid way where if I don’t touch you in the next two minutes I’ll have to kill myself, and then all this will have been for nothing.” 

He doesn’t let Richie try and respond to that, thankfully. He kisses Richie again, tongue sliding along Richie’s and groans, and Richie’s hard just from that, worse than a fucking teenager. His hands roam Eddie’s back, trail up Eddie’s spine to his scar, and the way Eddie shivers against him makes his whole fucking body light up from the inside out. 

“Off,” Eddie mumbles, pushing at Richie’s coat and speaking between kisses. “Throw them… in the front seat… so they stay clean.” 

“That’s my Eds,” Richie says fondly. Eddie just huffs and pushes more insistently. 

There’s an awkward shuffle while Richie pulls off his coat, then his sweater, and undershirt, and why the _fuck_ is he wearing so many layers? He remembers the moment he yanks off his undershirt, nipples immediately responding to the cold air. 

“Holy fuck, it’s freezing,” Richie complains. 

“Don’t be a baby,” Eddie retorts, pushing Richie back down against the seats, which are also freezing. Eddie is hunched over, pressing his lips to Richie’s collarbone, and he immediately forgets about the cold. 

“Holy shit, Eddie, fuck,” he gasps when Eddie kisses his way across Richie’s chest, and closes his lips around a nipple. His teeth graze over the skin, and Richie jerks, hands finding Eddie’s hair automatically. “Your _mouth_, I— holy fuck, I love you.” 

“Love you too,” Eddie says without looking up from what he’s doing. Eddie’s hands skate lower, over Richie’s stomach, and his mouth follows, kissing and biting his way down. Richie’s fucking _aching_. 

“Eds, I don’t uh— I don’t know your endgame here, but if you try and blow me right now I’m just warning you, it won’t last long,” he says shakily, bucking up when Eddie’s chin accidentally brushes over his clothed dick. 

“I’m not blowing you,” Eddie deadpans, and the definitiveness in his voice makes Richie laugh. “I’m not doing that for the first time ever, hunched over in a fucking hundred thousand dollar car, when I can’t even brush my teeth after.” 

“Mmm, sexy pillow talk, baby,” Richie teases. Eddie pinches his nipple lightly, resulting in a truly embarrassing noise that he seems to like, because he does it again, making Richie squirm. 

“Fuck, Eddie, at this point I’m just gonna come in my pants like we’re actually still in high school,” Richie says, slapping Eddie’s hand away. Eddie soothes over it with his tongue, which is just fucking worse. 

“Good thing we’ve got a whole suitcase full of extras,” Eddie says, shit eating little grin on his face. 

Richie pulls him up until he can kiss him for that, sloppy and open mouthed, and gets a hand between them to palm at Eddie’s crotch, thrill chasing down his spine when he feels Eddie is just as hard as he is. Eddie moans, and dips his head down to Richie’s shoulder, grinding against Richie’s hand and letting out these sharp little breaths, and it’s definitely the hottest thing he’s ever heard. 

“Jesus, you swear you don’t secretly moonlight as a porn star?” Richie asks, popping the button of Eddie’s jeans.

Eddie straightens, pulling at his own jeans and tugging them down so they’re halfway to his knees, giving Richie plenty of room to reach in and close his hand around him. Eddie jerks again, and gasps Richie’s name. 

“Fuck, oh _fuck_ Richie,” Eddie swears. He leans down to kiss Richie, making the angle way more awkward, but its worth the carpal tunnel for the noises Eddie is making against his mouth. 

It doesn’t take long until Eddie is close, hips thrusting of their own accord and moans getting louder and more desperate. The windows have fogged in addition to Richie’s glasses at this point, and he pulls them off so he can watch Eddie come apart, keeping him close enough that he can still see his face when he comes. Eddie’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he shudders as he rides through his orgasm, gasping half formed sentences and broken moans and looking beautiful, blissed out, and Richie loves him so fucking much it hurts.

He collapses on Richie’s chest after. Richie strokes his back as he comes down, kissing his hair and his ear and anywhere he can reach. 

“I love you,” he says again with lips pressed to Eddie’s temple. “And that was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.” 

Eddie laughs breathlessly, and pushes up to kiss Richie properly. “A forty year old having his first good handjob is the hottest thing you’ve ever seen? Rich, that’s sad.” 

“Yeah, when it’s you it is,” Richie argues, smiling against Eddie’s scarred cheek. “And especially when it’s me giving the handjob. Everything you do is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Do you know how many hours I spent imagining what you’d look like, and sound like? And the reality is so much better than any amateur shit I ever thought of.” 

Eddie grins. He kisses Richie slow, and Richie’s able to forget about his own dick for approximately two minutes, getting lost in the addictive heat of Eddie’s mouth, until Eddie shifts and his hip brushes against it. Richie hisses against his mouth, and Eddie bites his bottom lip gently. 

“Now you,” he says, and that’s all the warning he gets before Eddie’s hand slips in past Richie’s open fly, and _holy shit, Eddie Kaspbrak’s hand is on his dick_. 

“Oh fuck, Eddie, Eds, I’m—“ 

“I got you, sweetheart,” Eddie hushes him, kissing down his throat as his hand works. 

“Oh my god, Eddie, did you fucking dream walk while you were in the upside down, or some shit? I have _literally_ dreamed of you calling me sweetheart in bed, like, more than once, it’s a whole thing—“ 

“Beep fucking beep, Richie,” Eddie mutters, but Richie would swear he feels him smiling. 

Richie comes with Eddie’s mouth on his neck, vision whiting out and god knows what nonsense spilling out of his mouth. Eddie strokes him through it, his other hand running through his hair. When he comes back down, Eddie is looking at him in a way that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. 

“Your afterglow is so cute,” Richie says, still gasping for breath. Eddie flicks his chin but smiles. 

“Yours too,” Eddie says. “You’re all flushed and sweaty, it’s adorable.” 

“Ugh, shut up, I’m gross. Stop looking at me,” Richie complains. Eddie responds by kissing him and looking at him even more intently. “Well, we can officially cross ‘horny teenage car sex’ off our bucket list now.” 

“We were making up for lost time,” Eddie says warmly. He lays his head on Richie’s chest, and they stay that way until their heartbeats regulate and a chill starts to creep back into the car. 

Eddie makes it about five minutes before he lifts his head and wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

“I can’t believe I’m laying in jizz right now,” he says, frowning at the drying come on his stomach. “Ugh, why did you let me do this?” 

“You were unstoppable babe,” Richie says. “I tried to save you from yourself.” 

“Not hard enough.” 

“Oh, I was hard enough.” 

“Asshole.” 

He leans over and digs in Richie’s console, somehow producing wet wipes. 

“Where the fuck did those come from?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I got them at the first gas station we stopped at, dumbass. I can’t believe you didn’t already have these in your car. Do you know how much bacteria is on the handle of a gas pump?" 

“I mean, I've made it this far, babe.“ 

“It only takes one time, Rich. I will literally never understand how you're still alive.” 

This continues the entire time they clean themselves up, and dig in their suitcases for new underwear and jeans. Richie rolls up the dirty ones and shoves them far down in his suitcase when Eddie refuses to let them touch any of his precious clothes. He _really_ hopes TSA doesn’t decide to search his bag. 

They make it to the airport with minimal bitching from Eddie about their overall disgustingness. Still, Richie’s pretty sure public sex is probably off the table for the future based on the obsessive way Eddie keeps using hand sanitizer. They’re still early for their flight, and once they check their bags Richie is offered access to the VIP lounge, which incredibly has a private bathroom and shower.

“Okay, you look more turned on by this bathroom than when I literally had your dick in my hand,” Richie complains, trailing behind Eddie making a beeline for the bathroom. 

“Once you figure out self-sanitizing, we’ll talk,” Eddie answers. He digs up a fresh pair of clothes, dopp lot, and his ugly little shower flip flops, all from his fucking carry on like an over prepared Boy Scout and closes the door before Richie can even blink. 

“Dick,” Richie mutters to himself with a smile. For his part, he thinks it’s a little sexy that he’s still a kind of gross from their backseat adventure. He’s even thinking of asking Eddie to join the mile high club with him, and can’t wait to see his adorable little forehead vein pop when he suggests it. 

He gets a drink while Eddie does his thing, trying to calm his high from everything that’s happened in the past — well, six months, really. If he thinks too hard about it the doubt starts to creep back in. No matter how he looks at it, it feels unreal that Eddie is alive and well and loves him back, that he wants him bad enough to fuck him in a car mere hours before a five hour flight. So instead of thinking he drinks, and decides to be an adult and catch up on all the messages he’s been ignoring since Eddie showed up. It’s an effective distraction, at the very least. 

He still hasn’t officially found a new manager, but he has a few emails from some people in the business that heard he and Melissa split ways. He replies to two of them about possible tour dates, sets up meetings for next week to revisit the future of his whole career, or whatever. The Losers group chat is brimming with reports of safe flights and well wishes, he sends an update that he and Eddie are en route to L.A. Bill replies _‘dinner next week?’_ to which he immediately agrees, because really Bill got off _way _too easy with the whole Mike business and is due for a good grilling on the matter. 

The text from Ryan that had set Eddie off still sits unanswered. He opens and closes it three times before typing out a response where he, in the vaguest terms possible, explains the whole “reconnected with the love of my life” schtick, throwing in a “it’s not you, it’s me, and my childhood best friend who I’m definitely going to marry”, and absolving him of any blame. He finishes up with a lame sentence about how he hopes they can be friends. Ryan replies almost immediately thanking him for the message, and that he’ll see him around, and that’s that. 

The picture they took in New Hampshire, that to his enlightened eyes now looks disgustingly couple-y, pops up when he toggles back to the Losers group chat. He considers it for a long minute, then thinks, _fuck it_, and sets it as his lock screen.

Eddie appears just as he’s feeling very mature and good about himself, and Richie plants a wet kiss to his cheek as he slides onto the stool next to Richie. 

“Rich, come on, I just watched my face,” Eddie whines, wiping his cheek dramatically with a napkin. Richie just stares adoringly at the frown lines on his face, and it only gets more absurdly gooey when Eddie orders a vodka soda and lime. Eddie watches every move the bartender makes, on edge to point out some health code violation no doubt. 

“You know, there’s a chance that woman in the corner just took a picture of me kissing you,” Richie mentions when Eddie’s drink is delivered. Eddie takes a sip and nods, apparently giving his silent hard won approval. 

“So?” Eddie responds, and Richie relaxes. He hadn’t even realized how tense he was. 

“So, I mean... like I know you like to pretend you don’t agree, but I am sort of well known. If she sells that to the right person it could end up in a tabloid. _People_ is particularly obsessed with me for some fucking reason.”

Eddie looks at him with creased eyebrows. “Okay... but you’re out, right? Do you not _want_ people to pap me with you?” Richie notes the self consciousness in his tone and immediately overcorrects. 

“No, shit, I don’t give a fuck. I wanna show you off to the world, Eds, I just wanna be sure _you’re _okay with that. So that we’re on the same page, vis-a-vis like, PDA and shit. I’ll proclaim my deep undying love for you on twitter right now, if you want—”

“Richie, shit, calm down,” Eddie says with a grin. “Whatever you want is fine with me, is all I’m saying. I’m cool.” 

Richie stares, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t. Eddie just sips his drink and looks cooly back at him, not even a hint of anxiety on his adorable face.

“Really?” Richie probes. Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Cause I was lying, like… I’m not ashamed, not anymore, but like, I’m definitely still gonna have some hangups about PDA, just so we’re clear.” 

“I know.” 

“You— how the fuck are you so chill about this? You were in the closet just as long as I was.” 

Eddie shrugs. “I fucking _died_, Richie. It changes your perspective. Fame and all the shit that comes with it is part of your package, and I very much want your package. Pun intended.” 

“Holy fuck, I love you,” Richie chokes, very nearly unable to resist pinning Eddie to the nearest flat surface for a repeat performance of the Kissing Bridge. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Eddie says with a wink, just to be an asshole. 

“Alright… you know what, fuck it,” Richie says. 

He takes out his phone, angling so that Eddie can see, and opens Instagram for the first time since he abandoned his tour to go to Derry. Without bothering to check any of his notifications, he opens a new post and selects he and Eddie’s New Hampshire picture. He’s swiping through filters when Eddie yanks it out of his hand. 

“Dude, no. I look like a fucking muppet,” Eddie says. “Pick another one.” 

“You don’t look like a muppet, Eddie baby, you look cute,” Richie argues. Eddie keeps the phone just out of reach and flips through the other options, and finds one where both he and Richie are mid laugh. 

“Use this one, we both look cute,” Eddie presses. 

“It doesn’t give off the same vibe, Eduardo.” 

“What vibe?”

“The ‘I’m fucking this guy, but I don’t want to come outright and say it so please infer and speculate based on this decidedly unplatonic pose’.” 

“That’s a very specific vibe.” 

“Yes, and this picture hits the nail on the head. Come on.” 

“Fine, but post the cute one too. Don’t need your fans thinking you’re dating Grumpy from the seven dwarves.” 

“I mean, that’s pretty much exactly who I’m— holy shit, did you say we’re _dating_?” 

“Jesus _Christ_, Richie.”

* * *

The picture is posted, no caption because Richie’s an asshole that likes to leave people guessing. At least until his next tour, where he can gush about Eddie on a nightly basis, and maybe even in a Netflix special where it’ll be immortalized forever. 

His notifications blow up, which he ignores, as well as his twitter mentions. He takes exactly one phone call from his publicist Oliver about it, just to get a feel for if it’ll be safe for he and Eddie to leave the house in the near future. Oliver reports that things are more than fine. Apparently the only fans that seem to have abandoned him are the exact demographic it sickened him to cater to in the first place, and they fucked off after Vanity Fair anyway, so he really couldn’t give a shit. The general public consensus is overwhelming support. Bev and Bill also use their social media platforms to sing Richie and Eddie’s praises, confusing the shit out of each of their individual fanbases and leading to wild speculation on how the three of them know each other.

They spend the first week after Derry turning Eddie back into a functional modern human being. Eddie spends two days deep cleaning the entire house, berating Richie between feverish make out sessions for his disgusting dusting habits, or lack thereof, all as he’s pressing Richie into the sofa and tugging his pants off. They get papped three days after posting the picture while out shopping. Eddie gets essentially an entirely new wardrobe, as well as a phone, laptop, and all kinds of other odds and ends he insists he needs, like a steam cleaner and a fucking garlic press. The pictures are already all over twitter when they get home and unload the literal u-haul they needed to get everything back to the house. The press and all of twitter and instagram still haven’t figured out Eddie’s name, and he’s secretly fucking stoked for someone to google it and figure out Eddie was at one point declared dead. That’ll land him an E! True Hollywood Story in no time.

“Thank fuck Myra doesn’t have twitter,” Eddie says when Richie brings this up. “She was addicted to E!, she’d rat me out in a second if it meant she’d get to be on that fucking show.” 

Every second they aren’t sleeping or meticulously weaving Eddie into Richie’s life, they’re all over each other. Richie cries the first time they fuck properly in Richie's bed, and Eddie doesn't even make fun of him. He learns every divot and crease of Eddie’s body, names all the crests and angles of his scar, learns exactly how to make him gasp and shudder and moan and, on one occasion that Richie will revisit for the rest of his life, scream Richie’s name. And Eddie always gives as good as he gets, putting his nuclear reactor type levels of excess energy into giving Richie the best orgasms of his fucking life. They spend a disgusting amount of time touching without it being sexual either. They cuddle on the sofa, on the bed, while standing in the kitchen waiting for coffee to brew. Eddie falls asleep with his head in Richie’s lap, and vice versa. Their legs tangle together on opposite ends of the sofa, like all those years ago in the hammock. He thinks he could spend everyday making up for lost time, and never tire of it. 

The nightmares creep back in after their one night of reprieve. Richie dream of Eddie disappearing in a crowd, of Eddie being impaled by It, of Eddie disappearing under water in the quarry and not resurfacing. Eddie dreams of waking up back beyond the veil, of screaming Richie’s name and Richie not being able to hear or see him. Richie wakes up every time Eddie starts thrashing, or crying, and eases him back into sleep. Eddie does the same, wrapping his arms tight around Richie when he yells himself awake, whispering soothingly into his ear until he drifts off again. Slowly, as the days pass, they become less frequent. Three nightmares a night become two, then one. One Saturday morning they wake up after an entire night of uninterrupted sleep, and it feels like a fucking revelation.

Two weeks in, Eddie has settled in as if he’s always been there. Richie finds time and inspiration to write for the first time since he made it big, and spends a few hours a day with his laptop and Eddie, pressed against him in some fashion, typing away on his own. 

“I think I need to go back to work,” Eddie announces during one of these impromptu work sessions, about three and a half weeks after Derry. They’re settled on the couch today, on opposite ends, legs tangled together. Eddie’s toes dig into his thighs, twitching every now and then when he adjusts his position, tickling his skin. 

“Already?” Richie asks. “Babe, we’re fine like, financially, you can take more time.” 

“I know, but you’re gonna be going on tour soon. I’ll need something to do besides mope around and bother Bill.” 

“Aw, you’ll mope when I’m gone?” Richie coos. 

“Shut up. I’m serious, Richie.” 

“Okay, well, are you sure you want to go back to being a tax accountant?” 

“For fuck’s sake, Richie, I was _not_ a fucking tax accountant, how many fucking times can we have this conversation?” 

“Whatever! Whatever boring shit you did, you want to keep doing that?” 

“Maybe!” Eddie huffs. “I did kind of like it. It was easy, and I made good fucking money, you know.” 

“Oh thank god, I thought you were only after me for my riches.” 

“Keep your money, I got my own, baby,” Eddie quips, and Richie swoons. 

“A Beyoncé reference? Holy shit, I’m proposing right the fuck now, hang on let me get on one knee—“ 

Eddie laughs and kicks him away when he tries to shuffle out of their comfortable little tangle of limbs. “Wait, are you famous enough to meet Beyoncé? Could we set that up?” 

“Yeah right. I may be creeping into that A-list but she’s on her own fucking level.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Really, though, Eds?” He nudges Eddie’s arm with his feet. “Take your time. You can do whatever you want. You could get that medical degree that you probably already qualify for.” 

“That’s _eight_ years of school, Richie. More, with pre-reqs. I’ll be fucking fifty when I graduate.” 

“So you’ve looked into it, obviously.” 

“I— maybe,” he admits, cheeks pink.

“Okay, you have to do it. You’d be such a good doctor Eddie! Remember how you patched up Ben’s stomach without even flinching?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You have got to stop using that as an example, Rich. Shoddy first aid thirty fucking years ago hardly counts as any sort of competent medical training.” 

“It didn’t get infected, did it? Even after all the literal shit in the sewers, you kept him in tip top shape.” 

“That still doesn’t compare to like, surgery, Richie.”

“So you’d be a surgeon. That’s so fucking hot, Eds.” 

“Richie, oh my god—“ 

“I could call you Dr. Kaspbrak unironically, that’s _sexy_, Eddie.” 

“Richie—“ 

“Eds, come on.” Richie closes and puts down his laptop, leans forward and takes Eddie’s out of his hands, and crawls up between Eddie’s legs, hovering in his space. “You’re smart, and brave, and you’re always taking care of everyone. Me, especially. I’ve drank more water in the last month than I have in my entire _life_, Eds. You could do it for a living, _and_ have daily access to medical cleaning supplies. The kind that kill like staph and shit.” 

“I could also just _buy_ that shit, with my six figure salary and almost-A-list comedian boyfriend’s money.” 

“Eds,” Richie admonishes. He leans down, presses his lips to Eddie’s softly. “I’m trying to be serious, take advantage of it. You’ve always wanted to be a doctor, I know you have. And I think Andie would think it would be a super fucking good idea too. It’d be like lifelong immersion therapy for your germaphobia and Munchausens-survivor neuroses, _and_ you’d be getting paid for it.” 

“You just made that up. And Andie has also told us several times _not_ to discuss our sessions with each other, Richie.” 

“This isn’t discussing a session! And stop changing the subject. I think you should think about it, Eddie, seriously. Perspective, remember?” 

Eddie nods, chewing on his bottom lip. Richie kisses him until he stops, and keeps kissing him when Eddie’s hands slip under his tshirt. 

“We could start with a free anatomy lesson right now, Dr. Kaspbrak.” He trails his hands down to Eddie’s ass, cupping it as best as he can with one hand wedged between Eddie and the cushion. The British accent emerges, with a fair bit of Australian when he murmurs, “Mmm, the elusive gluteus maximus in it’s natural habitat, known colloquially as Richie’s Palms, for which it is perfectly sized. His hand encapsulates the meat of the gluteus so perfectly it’s as if they were made for each other—” 

“Are you doing a doctor bit or a nature documentary bit?” Eddie says, far too snooty for the way he eagerly presses into Richie’s touch when he starts to really knead his ass in earnest. 

“Both, dear boy,” Richie says. “I’m a comedy chameleon, darling.” 

“You’re inconsistent as fuck. Very unprofessional, Richard Tozier.” 

“Oh fuck yeah, full name me again, that’s hot.” 

The conversation effectively ends with Richie straddling him, Eddie’s tongue in his mouth shutting him up, but two days later Richie passes by Eddie’s laptop and sees several medical school admissions pages pulled up on different tabs. 

About a week after the med school conversation, the time comes for Richie to send his first draft to his new manager. She’d given him free reign and full control of his own destiny for once, so he knows she’ll approve pretty much anything he sends, but that’s not what has his stomach in knots when he reviews it for the fiftieth time. 

“You’ve been frowning at that for hours, Richie, take a break,” Eddie says offhandedly, barely looking up from where he’s curled up on the opposite end of the couch, deeply engrossed in some text conversation with Mike. 

“I am.” He swallows, and clears his throat, aiming for some measure of composure. His voice shakes anyway. “Hey uh, will you read over this before I send it? Help me iron out the kinks.” 

“Thought it was a first draft. And that I was forbidden from reading it.” 

“Yeah, that was then though. Please?” 

Eddie glances up at him, and something (the nervous flop sweat on his forehead, probably) convinces Eddie to sit up and scoot over to read over Richie’s shoulder. Richie sighs, and presses the whole computer onto Eddie’s lap so he can stand and pace anxiously. 

“You uh. Only need to read the opener.” 

“Okay.” Eddie’s eyes start skimming the first line, and Richie coughs.

“Um… out loud, maybe? I just— I need to hear it from someone else.” 

Eddie looks genuinely concerned. “Richie, babe, it’s just a rough draft, relax. You look like you’re gonna shit yourself.” 

“Just… read it. Please. Start after all the ‘welcome’ and ‘thanks for coming’ bullshit.” 

Eddie frowns but does as Richie asks, and starts reading aloud.

“‘So, I guess you all probably remember that whole Vanity Fair thing, where I tripped my way out of a forty year closet.’” Eddie glances up, looking like he’s about to say something, so Richie shakes his head and urges him on with a flippant gesture. “Then it says, ‘look gracious if there’s applause, improv a dick joke if it’s dead’. Real mature, Richie.” 

Richie makes the gesture again, so Eddie continues. “‘And there’s been enough shit online that I’m sure most of you know, I— I met someone.’” 

Eddie stops, and Richie can see him reading ahead, so he snaps his fingers to get his attention. “No, fuck— keep going Eds, I’m about to start eating my hands over here.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says, uncharacteristically soft. He clears his throat. “Um. ‘I met someone. Which is a weird way to talk about how I met this guy, the— the actual love of my life, when I’ve known him since I was six years old. He’s a short, grumpy little firecracker with great legs and hair, and he doesn’t think I’m funny at all.’” 

Ironically, Eddie snorts at that, and his eyes are shiny when he glances up at Richie staring at him, rooted to the spot. “‘I’ve known this guy my whole life, and yet I tell people ‘I met someone’ when I talk about him, because that sounds way more normal than explaining you had selective amnesia for the three decades you spent apart. But sometimes— sometimes it doesn’t even feel like a lie, because three decades is a long time. People change a lot in that time. They go from successful comedians with a pending Netflix deal to whatever the fuck this train wreck is, for example.’” 

“Pause for laughter. The self deprecating jokes get the biggest laughs,” Richie says quietly. Eddie blinks up at him, and makes no comment. 

“‘But Eddie didn’t change. Not really. I saw him for the first time in over twenty years recently, and the second he glared at me from across a dimly lit Chinese restaurant, I was in love with him in the same stupid, hopeless way I was when we were kids, the way I had been for every year in between without even knowing it.’” 

Eddie stops, pressing his lips together in a way that either means he’s pissed or overwhelmed. Richie doesn’t get a chance to ask. “‘And it wasn’t just because he’d gotten insanely hot in that time. That’s how I tried to dismiss it at first, and then he opened his mouth, and I knew I was a fucking lost cause. He was the same Eddie I remembered, the person I’d dreamt about every night since we last saw each other, thinking he had to have been too good to be true when I woke up.

Eddie’s the kind of person that cares so hard that he’ll spend an entire evening lecturing you on the dangers of lactose if you complain of a stomachache. He’ll keep a mental tally of how many drinks you’ve had, and whether you’ve mixed liquors, and cut you off before you make yourself sick, even if it involves yelling at you. _Especially_ if it involves yelling at you. He’s the kind of friend that will drop everything to keep a promise, that will face his deepest fears to protect his friends. The kind of person who would… who would die for his friends.’” 

Richie is fully crying by now. Eddie wipes at his eyes, refusing to look at Richie, voice thick when he continues. “‘Eddie is everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’ve known it since I was thirteen. If he left me tomorrow, well I’d fully understand after this whole embarrassing fucking charade. But if he did, I know I’d never find another person I could love more than him.’” Eddie sniffs, clears his throat. “‘All of this is a super drawn out and long winded way of confirming that… yes, I _am_ fucking that short brunette guy from my Instagram, and if he lets me, I’m going to fucking marry the shit out of him one day.’” 

Eddie finishes with a weird hiccuping sound, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Richie forces himself not to speak, waiting on tenterhooks for Eddie to say something, and nearly explodes when Eddie leaves him hanging for a full minute. 

“Eds, please, you gotta—“ 

“Did you just make me propose to myself, for you?” Eddie gasps out at last, hands dropping to his lap. 

“I— it was like, an informal proposal, more of a gesture, to show you how much I love you—“ 

“So you’re not proposing?” Eddie asks, eyes red rimmed. 

“That… depends on your reaction, if I’m being honest.”

Eddie glares, hands balled into tight fists in his lap.

“So, I’m gonna go with… not— officially? Unless you’re into it?” 

“_Richie_.” 

“Fuck, hindsight really is 20/20, I’m fucking insane, aren’t I? And so is fucking Bev for encouraging me. We’ve only been living together for a month, and you’re newly divorced, and I've- _f__uck_.” Eddie closes the laptop and stalks to where Richie is, essentially, hiding behind the armchair. “It’s _not_ a proposal, Eds! I mean, it could be, but it’s not, because you’re looking at me like that, and usually I can tell when it’s a ‘haha’ glare or a ‘I’m going to skin you in your sleep’ glare, and I can’t right now, so it’s not. Unless—“

In one smooth motion, Eddie leaps onto the armchair, drags Richie to him by the neck and kisses him, putting everything his little body can into it. He kisses Richie like its the first time. He kisses Richie like he’ll die if he doesn’t, like he’s starving and Richie is a six foot something kale smoothie, or whatever the fuck is in those nasty things he drinks. He’s out of breath when he finally releases Richie, and has fresh tears in his eyes. Richie kisses his wet cheeks, fingers digging into Eddie’s hips. 

“There are no words, Richie Tozier,” Eddie says, sighing against his mouth. “And I was right. That wasn’t funny, like, at all. Please tell me that’s not your actual opener.”

“Fuck no. I told Bev it was fucking stupid. I’ll show you the texts, I put up a fight, I really fucking did, but she—“ 

“Let’s get married.” 

Circus music starts up between Richie’s ears. “What?” 

“Let’s get fucking married, dumbass.” 

“Eddie, I mean, you heard everything I just said right?” 

“Yeah. And I _read_ everything you were too chickenshit to say too, dipshit.” He smiles, brushing a curl from Richie’s forehead. “I love you, so fucking much. I want to be with you everyday until we die. That’s why people get married, right?” 

“But… we’re—“ 

“We’re _forty_. We’ve wasted enough fucking time. Who gives a shit how long we’ve technically been together? We don’t have anything to prove, to fucking anybody.” 

Richie feels his jaw go slack as he gapes, so Eddie kisses him until he’s capable of speaking again. 

“So… this is happening? Are you serious?” 

“I mean… not any time soon, you’ve got a six month long tour coming up, and we probably do need to consider the optics of you getting married less than a year after coming out—“ 

“Your statistic talk never ceases to turn me on, baby.” 

“—and you _did_ make me do all the work in your proposal, but… the answer is yes. I want to marry you.” 

“_Fuck_ yes!” Richie exclaims. He picks Eddie up, ignoring his indignant yelp, and crushes their mouths together. He swings them around to press Eddie against the wall, groaning when Eddie’s legs wrap around his waist automatically. Eddie pulls his hair, and cups his face, and grip his biceps, like he can’t get enough of Richie. Richie drowns in it, melts when Eddie sucks on his bottom lip, and breaks away to murmur “I love you,” against Richie’s mouth, before starting in on his jaw. 

Richie’s just started rutting helplessly against Eddie’s hip when his phone starts ringing in his back pocket. He drags his mouth away from Eddie’s neck and checks the caller ID. 

“Fucking Bill, cockblock,” he mutters, tossing the phone on the nearest end table. They both listen to it vibrate until it goes to voicemail, only for it to start ringing again less than five seconds later. Richie sighs and sets Eddie down, stomping over to pick up the call. 

“Hey, Bill, kind of busy with a little afternoon delight, please call back later, byeee!” 

“Richie, _wait_, I—“

Richie hangs up, slingshotting back to Eddie without a second thought. He’s just peeled off Eddie’s shirt and gotten him horizontal on the couch when the vibrating starts up again. He manages to ignore four calls before Eddie huffs in frustration and stops mouthing his way down Richie’s chest. 

“Jesus Christ, just see what he wants,” Eddie snarls, pushing Richie towards the general direction of the incessant vibrating. 

Richie snatches the phone up mid ring and presses it to his ear before he’s even fully tapped ‘Answer’.

“Bill, what part of ‘afternoon delight’ did you not fucking understand? Look it up on urban dictionary, grandpa. Eddie and I are about to _fu_—“ 

“_Richie_, please shut the _fuck_ up.” 

Richie pauses. His heart fucking stops, caught somewhere between his chest and throat. Eddie scrambles off the couch and over to Richie’s side when he sees the way he’s paled, and squeezes his wrist. 

“Holy shit,” Richie breathes. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Richie doesn’t answer. He just gapes like a fish out of water, and Eddie is just about to press him when the person on the other end speaks again. 

“Richie, I just crawled my way out of the fucking sewers in _Derry_ with nothing but this fucking phone number in my pocket. What—the _fuck_— is going on?” 

“Holy _fuck_— _Stanley?_” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :):):):) AS IF I COULD LEAVE STAN DEAD.  
also, georgie is alive too, hence bill’s phone call. thanks magic turtle. don’t think too much about the paradoxes or the possible butterfly effect. i talked it over with st*phen k*ng, it's fine. and [eddie's R was real](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/post/188003925547) i wont hear any arguments against it
> 
> anyway, thats a WRAP!!! thank you SO much to everyone who’s followed this story and commented, i’ve enjoyed writing it so much and i’m sad to end it! never imagined it’d be this long when i started it, but here we are, 70k later, and it’s all been because of the wonderful feedback i’ve gotten from all of you that kept it going. love you all to bits <3
> 
> there might one day be an epilogue/part 2 to this story if i can get the umph to do it, but for now i have other reddie fics in the early stages that i want to focus on, so watch this space. you can also always find me on [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/) where i sometimes write mini prompt fill fics. thank you again and happy holidays to everyone :)


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